


Another Life

by mistress_new_mistress



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Non-Immortal (The Old Guard), Amnesia, Angst, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Immortal Husbands Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Joe is hella confused, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani and Nicky | Nicolò di Genova are in Love, M/M, Parallel Universes, Post-Movie: The Old Guard (2020), Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:41:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26691598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistress_new_mistress/pseuds/mistress_new_mistress
Summary: Joe awakens after being shot in the head. But the life he wakes to is not the one he knows.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 120
Kudos: 647





	1. Chapter 1

Slowly, the darkness lifted.  
  
Joe could feel his brain thumping on the inside of his skull, begging to be released like a caged animal. A distinct smell filled the air—bacon, maybe. Eggs and ground coffee. The light, musky smell of laundry soap and sweat. He was in bed.  
  
His bed?  
  
Had to have been.

His and Nicky’s bed in . . . where were they now? Not Malta. Mexico. Yes, on a mission in Mexico to eradicate a cartel that kept resurfacing like cockroaches. Still, their bed at the safe house in Mexico was no bed at all, more of a cot stuffed with chicken feathers.  
  
A low moan rumbled through Joe’s throat. His head felt like someone had taken a rail spike to it. There had been bullets whizzing past his head, the pop, pop, pop of fresh rounds being fired at all angles. But then . . .  
  
 _“Joe, wake up!”_

Nicolo’s voice screaming over gunfire. Joe had heard it as he fell to the ground, a mushroom cloud of pain exploding in his head. And then darkness, an old and true friend he was tired of being familiar with.

 _“Yusuf, destati!”  
_  
A door squeaked open from across the room. Joe slowly opened his eyes and his body tensed with fear as someone climbed frantically onto the bed. Not Nicky. Not Andy or Nile or Booker. Someone small and wild and—  
  
“Baba, wake _up_!”  
  
Joe jumped as a pillow smacked against his side. He turned over, startled, and fell off the bed with a yelp. When he landed on the floor, he touched a hand to his head and raised his eyes to the bedside.  
  
A little girl, at least seven or eight, with black hair and large brown eyes peered down at him. She giggled and pulled the collar of her pink pajama top up over her lips to hide her smile.  
  
Joe stared, bewildered. This was not the safe house in Mexico.  
  
“Hello,” was all he _could_ say.  
  
The little girl tugged her shirt from her chin and erupted in a fit of laughter. “You fell!” She toppled over onto the pillows and howled with delight. To her, it was the funniest damn thing since the chicken had crossed the road.  
  
Joe scrunched his face. What. The fuck. He looked around the room, a completely foreign place that was something out of a _Good Housekeeping_ catalogue. This room had cream-colored walls and mahogany furniture, crimson bedspreads and venetian blinds. Early morning sunlight streamed through the window, giving the room a warm, comforting glow.  
  
And still, the child laughed.  
  
“What’s going on?” Joe pulled himself to his knees by gripping the end-table. The clock on the nightstand read 7:15 am. He studied the room. It was nice. Clean. Completely unfamiliar.  
  
“Baba, didja hurt yourself?” the little girl asked, her giggling subsiding.  
  
 _Baba?_  
  
Joe’s eyes darted to the child. Obviously she was confused. Obviously Joe had come back from death for the umpteenth time and had been kidnapped by the cartel. This was some sort of new psychological torture. Maybe he had been hypnotized. Maybe they had drugged him.  
  
And yet Joe didn’t feel hungover in the least.  
  
“Amira?” a voice called from outside the room.  
  
Joe instinctively reached for a gun on the nightstand but only found a college textbook titled _The World of Jesus_. For the first time since his stint in the Crusades, Joe felt powerless.  
  
The little girl flounced off the bed and ran to the door. She opened it loudly and scuttled down the hall, yelling, “He’s awake, he’s awake!”  
  
Joe stood on shaking legs, his head swaying from the pain that jabbed the right side of his skull. He ran a hand through his hair and felt a small lump where he was sure he had been shot. How did he end up here, and how the hell was he in flannel pajama bottoms—?  
  
Joe looked at his left hand. A gold wedding band shimmered on his ring finger.  
  
What. The fuck.  
  
Joe felt the blood drain from his face. _Married?_ How the hell could he have been married? He leaned forward, his unstable legs threatening to give out. This wasn’t happening. This was all a dream, a hallucination. Or maybe . . .

Joe’s legs nearly gave out at his next thought: _maybe you finally died_.

_“Yusuf, destati!”_

Joe could still hear his beloved’s voice ringing in his ears. A bullet had struck him, that much was sure. And the darkness, that came next. But he never dreamed before coming back to life, never had a glimpse of the other side or even a white light to reach for.

But this new place—this dream or afterlife or whatever—felt too real. The smells were too sharp. The sun was too bright and vibrant. The darling little girl with black curls was far too fleshed out to be anything other than a living person.

Joe peered through the blinds and was met with a brick wall across an alley. It didn’t look like Mexico. It may have been Paris or Rome or Dubai but the alley left little to guess on. Joe exited the room and slowly made his way down the hall, trailing his hand along the wall for support. Whether all this was a dream or some enemy’s elaborate trick, he had to find out.  
  
Joe stopped dead in his tracks. His lips parted as he looked at a picture on the wall in a black frame, one of himself holding a baby in a small blanket. Another picture was next to it, this time with him and a toddler at the park. The last photo drew the air out of Joe’s lungs completely—him sitting on a park bench with that little girl named Amira on his lap.  
  
“Joe?”  
  
Yusuf swung his head to the voice. It was familiar, too familiar. Whoever it was, the man was in the kitchen, the smell of breakfast growing stronger with every step Joe took.

As he reached the end of the hall, Joe saw that he was in a warehouse loft, the kind rich yuppies lived in. Large square windows overlooked more buildings outside. There was a faint sound of traffic a few stories below on the street. The living area of the loft had leather couches, Persian rugs that Joe recognized from his countless travels in the Middle East, and bookshelves against the wall stacked with hundreds of thick, leather-bound volumes. It was spacious and modern. It reminded Joe of their flat in Amsterdam.

Joe turned right and entered the open kitchen next to the living room.  
  
A man in a blue button-down shirt and khakis stood over a stove with his back to Joe, eggs sizzling. The man turned with a spatula in hand. A gold band shone on his ring finger.  
  
“N-Nicolo?”  
  
It was him. There was something different about Nicky, something more clean-cut and fresh and unburdened about him. But there was no mistaking his shaggy brown hair, blue eyes, and that mole on the right side of his face that Joe had kissed a million times. Nicky flashed Joe a quick smile and turned back to the eggs.  
  
“ _Buongiorno, amore_.”  
  
Joe walked towards Nicky as though he had never used his legs before. Maybe he wasn’t dreaming. Maybe the gang had picked him up and brought him to a different safe house and it had just taken him longer than usual to come back to life.  
  
Yeah. Maybe.  
  
“Nicky . . . what’s happening?” Joe said. His voice was barely a whisper.  
  
Nicky turned the heat down on the stove and slid the scrambled eggs onto a plate. “I know,” he said, his back to Joe, “I’m running late, but I wanted to be a good husband and make my family breakfast before work.”  
  
Family? Work?  
  
Whose family was Nicky talking about? Joe looked around the kitchen and saw two plates set at the table. The child was nowhere to be seen. He looked at the wedding band on his hand again.  
  
“I don’t under—”  
  
“Amira Francesca,” Nicky called, dumping the dirty pan in the sink, “ _sbrigati, per favore_!”  
  
Joe heard the pitter-patter of the child’s feet scampering down the hall. She brushed past him and skidded to the table.  
  
“I’m here, I’m here!”  
  
Joe looked at the girl, then at Nicky. “Whose kid is that?” he asked.  
  
Nicky carried the plate of eggs and turkey bacon to the table and set it in the middle of the arrangement. “ _Si, lo so_ ,” he said, “I don’t know where she gets her energy from.” Nicky pushed the little girl’s chair closer to the table and kissed the top of her head. “You, _amore_ , are the queen of procrastination.”  
  
“What’s that?” the child asked, reaching for a bacon strip.  
  
“It means you’re gonna be late for school if you don’t eat.” Nicky buzzed around the kitchen, picking up papers and manila folders and stuffing them in a messenger bag.  
  
All the while, Joe remained rooted to his spot, watching the scene as though it were a movie. He felt like a bystander, an audience member in a playhouse where the fourth wall had been broken. Nicky finally took notice of Joe’s silence and stopped mid-hustle.  
  
“Hey. You okay?”  
  
Joe looked at Nicky, mouth open as he tried to breathe normally. “Nicky, what’s happening?”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“Baba fell off the bed,” Amira chimed from the table.  
  
“N-no, I . . .” Joe sighed, frustrated, and touched the side of his head. “Mexico. Juarez. We were surrounded—”  
  
“Whoa, whoa,” Nicky said, holding his hands up. “Slow down. What’re you talking about?”  
  
“My head. I fell and . . .”  
  
“ _Si_.” Nicky nodded. “One of your students got too eager and landed a punch to your head.”  
  
Joe crinkled his eyebrows. “What?”  
  
“Last night. Your intermediate Krav Maga class. You don’t remember?”  
  
Joe’s head swam. He looked at the little girl, who was watching him curiously. This all felt like a nightmare, a bad dream where nothing he was saying was right. “No, I—we were with Andy and Nile and—”  
  
“That was _Wednesday_. Drinks at The Dubliner.” Nicky looked at Joe, his face growing even more concerned. “Nile’s going-away party for her second tour in Afghanistan, remember?”  
  
“B-but—” Joe let out a strangled breath. No. This wasn’t right.  
  
“Are you okay, _caro_?” Nicky reached out and placed his hand on Yusuf’s cheek.  
  
For how fast Joe’s heart sped out of control, for how scared and stupefied and utterly exhausted he was, Joe found himself leaning into the comforting touch and closing his eyes tightly. At least this was familiar. At least this was one thing that hadn’t changed.  
  
“I’m dreaming,” Joe whispered. “Wake up, wake up . . .”  
  
Nicky removed his hand and went to the coffee pot on the island counter. He poured a mug and handed it to Joe. “Coffee helps.” He studied the man. “Why don’t I call the center and tell them you won’t be coming in to work today?”  
  
Joe looked at the coffee, then at his . . . his _Nicky_. Same ocean eyes, same nose and ears and perfect mouth, with only a scruffy beard to tarnish the image Joe had of him since waking up. He grasped the mug, letting his hand warm around it. Nicky leaned in and kissed Joe’s cheek.  
  
Remembering they weren’t alone, Joe suddenly felt self-conscious as he looked over at the little girl. She was watching them—no, she was watching _him_ , picking at her eggs and turkey bacon with a crinkle between her eyebrows. It was the same type of crinkle Joe knew he must have been sporting right now.  
  
“ _Merda_ , I’m very late,” Nicky said, fluttering around the kitchen again. He turned to Joe as he zippered his bag shut. “Andy’s picking Amira up from school today, but do you think you can send her off?” He looked at his watch and mumbled, “My students are gonna kill me.”  
  
 _Students_. Joe thought of the textbook on the nightstand and reasoned that this Nicky, whatever reality they were in, was a professor of religion. He could almost laugh. A priest in one life and a religious educator in another. No matter where Nicky went, it seemed God followed.  
  
Joe set his mug of coffee on the island counter and doubled over, laughing. He put a hand over his face as his body heaved with chuckles. Booker always said that crazy people laughed at inappropriate times. Was this what it was like going crazy? Was everything now a figment of his imagination, a psychedelic trip he hadn’t had time to pack for?  
  
“Well, I’m glad you’re feeling better,” Nicky said, grabbing his coat from the rack by the door.  
  
Joe straightened and waved his hand in the air, willing his laughter to subside. “This is all just . . .” He paused, looking around the room again at the concerned faces. The little girl had stopped eating. Nicky turned the collar of his jacket down and eyed Joe suspiciously.  
  
Oh, God. This was serious.  
  
“I think I need to sit down.” Joe made his way to the table and sat opposite of Amira.  
  
“Are you okay, baby?” Nicky asked, approaching him with his messenger bag in hand. “Should we see a doctor?”  
  
“Maybe . . . maybe I need to lie down again—”  
  
“I can call Andy and have her bring Amira to school, if you want,” Nicky said.  
  
“I, uh . . .” Joe drew a shaky breath. He glanced at the little girl, who was looking at him as though he might turn into a bug and fly away. Joe looked up at Nicky’s worried face, the man’s mouth turned downwards and his eyes dim with concern. The last thing he wanted was to cause a panic when he didn’t even know where he was or how he got here. “I’m okay,” he breathed, “I’ll be okay.”  
  
“You sure?”  
  
Joe nodded at his beloved and forced a weak smile.  
  
Nicky kept his gaze on Joe for a beat longer, then pulled his bag over his shoulder. “Okay,” he said. “Call me if you need me.” He leaned in and planted a light kiss on Joe’s lips. Nicky moved around the table and kissed Amira three times quickly on the cheek. The child giggled. “Be good, _amore_.”  
  
“Bye, Papa,” Amira said.  
  
Joe looked at her. The word sounded strange to him; he had never heard anyone refer to his lover in that way. Nicky left with a wave and closed the door behind him, leaving Joe alone at the table with the child.  
  
Yusuf slumped back in his chair and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hands. The smell of breakfast teased him, but he wasn’t hungry. Joe groaned. He wished he could wake up. He wished he knew what was going on, how he had gotten here, why they were having eggs and turkey bacon instead of shakshuka with mint tea.  
  
“You’re not my baba.”  
  
Joe dropped his hands and blinked at the small voice across the table. Amira was looking at him, her large eyes bulging with tears. She had abandoned her food, sitting back in her chair as though Joe might reach out and grab her. She looked at him like he was a complete stranger.  
  
Fear gripped Joe’s heart. “What did you say?” he asked.  
  
Amira shook her head. “You’re not my baba.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading, commenting, bookmarking, etc. It really means a lot to me. This is the first time I'm writing a Muslim character, so if I do something wrong, please let me know. In addition to being (sometimes) well-written, I want the story to be as culturally sensitive as possible. Thank you again so much!

“You’re not my baba!”  
  
Amira was crying now, tears falling down her face slowly. Her eyes were scrunched up and her hands were folded to her lips in fear. It broke Joe’s heart, seeing her like this. More than anything, though, he was terrified of the accusation. Did this child know that, just minutes ago, he was in the middle of a melee with drug runners? Was his cluelessness a dead giveaway that something was horribly amiss?  
  
Joe stood slowly, putting out a hand. “Amira, it’s okay—”  
  
“Leave me alone!” the little girl cried. “I want Papa!”  
  
“D-don’t cry. Please.”  
  
“You’re not Baba, you’re someone else!” Amira jumped off of her chair and ran through the dining room, past the connected living room, and to the door. Joe chased after her, his stomach somersaulting in his chest.  
  
“Amira, wait! Please!” He pulled her away from the door by her arm, terrified she would run out the door and chase Nicky down. The last thing he wanted was an even bigger scene than the show the child was putting on now.  
  
“Let me go!” Amira howled, struggling as Joe picked her up in his arms.  
  
“Shh, it’s okay!” Joe carried her back to the kitchen, grunting as the small girl struggled against him.  
  
“I want my baba! Where’s my baba?”  
  
Joe set Amira on the island counter. She sat on the edge and cried, heaving heartbreaking sobs that cut right to Joe’s heart. He took a rag from the oven handle and ran it under the tap in the sink.  
  
“Shh, it’s okay,” Joe said, wiping the cool cloth on the child’s face.  
  
He smoothed the tears from her cheeks and stroked her hair. Whatever was going on, whatever dream he might have been stuck in, he hated seeing the poor thing so upset. Even if Amira turned out not to be real, Joe couldn’t live with himself if he let her go on like this.  
  
Amira sniffled, her face red from crying. “You’re not my baba. You smell different.”  
  
Joe took the rag from her face and sighed, exhausted. He was tired of being in the dark, tired of not knowing how to behave or think or feel. The frustration was overwhelming, like a balloon that kept inflating in his chest.  
  
“Amira, I’m sorry. I-I don’t—” Joe threw his hands down. “I’m a little confused right now, that’s all.”  
  
“Why are you different?” Amira asked.  
  
Joe looked to the ceiling and shook his head. He wished he knew. He wished he could have some sort of sign, a guide book to tell him what to do. He looked at the child and she stared back, waiting and hopeful and wary of his response. Those eyes . . . _beautiful_. Something lit in Joe as he looked at her, replacing his fear for a brief moment. He didn’t have words for it, only a soft feeling that spread like warm water from his head to his toes.  
  
“Amira . . .” Joe sighed again. He knew he would have to take a different approach. “Baba hit his head last night, y’see? I’m just . . . feeling a little confused right now. But it’s not your fault. It’s no one’s fault.”  
  
“Do you have a owie?” Amira asked, sniffling away the last of her tears.  
  
Joe found himself smiling. If the child was anything, it was impossibly cute. “Yeah, I have a little bit of an owie, right here,” he tapped the right side of his skull. “And I need your help remembering a few things, okay? But you can’t tell Nicky, understand?”  
  
“How come?”  
  
“Because he might get very scared if he knew I was hurt. And we don’t want him to be scared, do we?”  
  
Amira shook her head vigorously.  
  
Joe nodded and gave her a friendly smile. “Good. Now . . . how old are you, sweetie?”  
  
“Five.”  
  
Joe mouthed the word and flushed in embarrassment. Not seven or eight as he had guessed. Though Joe had always liked kids, it wasn’t until now that he realized he was woefully inexperienced with them.  
  
“Baba?”  
  
Joe rubbed his eyes. “This is insane.”  
  
“Baba, you hafta take me to kindergarten.”  
  
Joe turned to his . . . to Amira. “Huh?”  
  
“You always walk me to kindergarten if you don’t hafta go to work.”  
  
Joe looked at the clock on the microwave. 7:37 am.  
  
“Right. Uh . . .” Joe picked Amira up and set her on the floor. He was flying with blinders on, at the guidance of a five-year-old who probably couldn’t even count to fifty yet. “Do I usually pack you a lunch?”  
  
Amira shook her head. “No.”  
  
Joe nodded. “Okay. Okay, we’re fine. Kindergarten.” He looked at the child. “You need to get dressed.”  
  
“Can I wear my red sparkly shoes?” the little girl asked.  
  
Joe nodded. “Uh, sure.”  
  
At the word, Amira bolted through the kitchen and down the hall to her room. Joe watched her go and placed a hand on the countertop, leaning for support as his legs gave out. He was dizzy, breathless, exhausted as though he had been awoken by a blaze of gunfire with no backup.

_Might as well have_ , he thought.

At least that would’ve been familiar  
  
0000000  
  
It was a beautiful spring day.

It didn’t take long for Yusuf to work out that they were in Manhattan, possibly Greenwich. The trees were budding with green and a strong, piss-smelling wind danced through the air as Joe walked with Amira down the block to her elementary school. Yellow taxis honked and people yelled across the street. Men in suits barreled past them coldly. Despite the bustle, Amira was able to lead the way like a sled dog in a blizzard.  
  
“Do you hafta go to the hospital for your owie?” Amira asked as Yusuf walked next to her. Her pink backpack was almost too big for her and her sparkly red shoes clacked against the sidewalk.  
  
Joe shook his head. “No, I don’t think they can help me at the hospital.”  
  
As they came to the crosswalk at a four-way stop, Amira reached up and took Joe’s hand. The warmth of her touch made him pause for a moment. He looked down at her, that feeling—what was it?—blooming in his heart again. He smiled.  
  
“Am I gonna see you after school?” Amira asked at they crossed the street.  
  
“Yeah, I . . . I guess.”  
  
Without knowing his regular routine, Joe had no idea how to answer. He hoped he would be around to see her when she got home. The idea of the child vanishing into thin air made Joe unexpectedly anxious.  
  
When they arrived at Amira’s school, Joe stood near the front steps as children rushed past them. Joe knelt on one knee, nervous without knowing why. Would Amira be okay in her class without him? Was she a good student? Did she have enemies that made her day a struggle?  
  
“So, uh . . .” he chuckled uneasily. “You gonna be okay?”  
  
“Yes,” Amira nodded. She surprised Joe by wrapped her small arms around his neck and hugging him tightly.  
  
Joe tensed, then put his hand on her back and melted into the embrace. It was nice. Soothing. The idea of being needed by someone so small resonated strongly within him. It had been a long time since the gang had come to the rescue of children. Most of their missions were bloody messes with nothing to show for it but death and a sense of retribution. But this simple act of walking a little girl to school against the dangers and commotion of the big city fulfilled him deeply.  
  
“Love you, Baba,” Amira whispered. “Don’t forget about me.”  
  
Joe closed his eyes as he hugged his . . . his Amira. Even if the child turned out to be nothing but a dream or a strange hallucination, Joe knew he could never forget her. That long, curly brown hair. The crease between her brows. That button nose and rich brown eyes. If nothing turned out to be real, Joe prayed he could at least hold on to the memory of her face.  
  
They parted. “Be good,” Joe said.  
  
“I will.”  
  
When Amira turned and headed for the building, she stopped halfway up the stairs and waved. Joe smiled and waved back, keeping his eyes on her until she was inside the building with the rest of the children.  
  
0000000  
  
When Joe got back to the house, he did what he had been doing for centuries when he wasn’t toting a gun: investigate. He searched every room of the house, digging for clues about his life up to this point.  
  
He came up with tax returns and newspaper clippings from the file drawer in the study. Pictures littered the bedroom from photo albums and unframed stills. The living room was a blizzard of DVDs, books, and more photos. Joe sat on the couch, the coffee table scattered with pictures and keepsakes—little art projects from Amira, knickknacks from home good stores and street vendors. A cold sense of numbness came over Joe. Every picture that featured him with Nicky or Amira felt like someone else. In these photos, he was smiling, happy, content with everything around him. The man looked like Yusuf and smiled like him and wore his hair the same way . . . but it wasn’t him. Not really. More like a skin-snatcher who was living another life under his nose.  
  
Old newspapers from the recycling bin told him it was roughly the same date as when he and the gang had gone to Mexico. A few news stories surprised him: a shaky peace deal between Russia and Georgia. An earthquake in Indonesia with a high death count. A beheading in Juarez by the very cartel he and the gang had tracked down.

Joe frowned. If he was here with Nicky and Amira, then where was no gang. Andy still seemed to be part of their life, thankfully, but everything else—rescue missions, tactical assassinations, coup preventions—none of it was happening. They weren’t guardians anymore. And if they weren’t fighting, did that mean . . .?

Yusuf touched the side of his head. It still throbbed in pain.

He went to the kitchen and searched the drawers. Joe found a butcher knife in a wooden block high and away on the counter out of Amira’s reach. He unsheathed it and ran the sharp edge along his forearm. The blade burned against his flesh, and soon a thin line of blood welled to the surface. Joe counted one heartbeat, two heartbeats, three. The blood kept coming.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Fuck, _fuck_!”  
  
Joe ran to the bathroom. He searched the linen closet and found a first aid kit next to a stack of towels. Joe cleaned and bandaged his arm, his heart pumping alkaline in his throat. He wasn’t immortal anymore. And if he wasn’t, that meant Nicky wasn’t. Or Andy. Or Booker. Or Nile, dropped back into the battlefield in Afghanistan.

Joe swallowed the lump in his throat and tried to steady his breath. He told himself that death wasn’t as big an issue in the comfort of a loft in an upscale neighborhood. If he had to be mortal anywhere, he was glad it was here, away from any real danger.

Still. At least he knew where he stood with immortality.

With his arm bandaged, Joe made a decision. He looked through the linen closet again but came up short. He went to the master bedroom and rummaged along the shelves. Behind a shoebox of oxford loafers, Yusuf found it: a _namāzlik_. It was an ornate rug of red and blue with gold patterns stitched inwardly and frayed at the edges. Joe sighed in relief and carefully brought the prayer mat to the living room.

Yusuf faced the rug eastward and sighed deeply. It had been a long time since he prayed. Nicky was always the one who said a few Hail Marys before they dropped into combat. Joe was worried he had forgotten the _salat_ altogether.

But after a few more breaths, the prayers came back like clockwork.

“ _Allahu Akbar_ . . .”

If there was anyone who could help, Joe took a chance and called on God. If this was an afterlife, maybe he would get an answer. At the very least, he would be currying favor with the big man.

“ _Allahu Akbar_ . . .”

Joe prayed for clarity. He prayed for forgiveness on the off chance this was hell. Mostly he prayed to calm himself.

When he finished his _salat_ , Joe rolled up the rug and put it back in the closet. He felt peaceful. With a clear mind and a steady heart, he was ready to get to the bottom of things.  
  
Joe scoured the bedroom and living room for photo albums, videos, anything that was a window into this unfamiliar life. He found a laptop in the cabinet under the TV and opened it. Surprisingly, the password was the same one Nicky used for everything in their other life. Joe chuckled.

He searched through files—mostly syllabi Nicky had written up for his classes, tax forms, bills. There was a treasure trove of photos dating back almost six years. Joe clicked through them in awe, watching a life unfold that he never knew could exist. Photos of him and Nicky signing a marriage certificate. Standing in the loft they were in now, only empty. Birthdays (it had been so long since he celebrated a birthday) with Andy and Nile and Booker all gathered at restaurants and parks. Photos of baby Amira, then toddler Amira, then preschool Amira with chocolate on her face. Hundreds of pictures of Nicky smiling, playing soccer, lighting candles at Christmas, kissing and hugging Yusuf.

Joe fell back against the couch and released the breath he had been holding. Tears in his eyes. This life was utterly upside down to everything Joe had known for centuries . . . but it was good. It was happy and sweet and loving.

It was _normal_.  
  
A phone buzzed somewhere, startling Joe. He looked around the living room, then spotted a smartphone on the island counter under the day's newspaper. As Joe was still processing the pictures on the computer, he answered without checking the ID. “Hello?”  
  
“Joe?” It was Andy. There was no mistaking her voice. Joe’s heart swelled with joy. “Where’ve you been?” She asked. “I tried calling, like, a dozen times.”  
  
“Uh—”  
  
“Listen, I know I was supposed to pick Amira up from school, but I’ve got a new lead on a case and I gotta chase it. Nicky told me you were playing hooky, anyway, so can you pick her up?”  
  
Joe looked around the kitchen as if one of the appliances could help him. He was dying to talk to Andy, to tell her what was going on and get her help. If anyone could work this out, besides God, it was Andromache of Sycthia. He trusted her in a thousand parallel universes to make things right.

“I’ll make it up to Amira, I promise,” Andy continued. “We’ll go to a movie next weekend, okay?”  
  
Joe rubbed his aching head and said, “Andy, please. I-I really need your help—”

“I know, I know,” Andy sighed. “Look, I feel guilty enough, so just let Amira know that I’m sorry, okay? Thanks.”  
  
There was a click before the line went dead. Joe looked at the phone in his hand, then placed it on the island counter. He stood in the kitchen for a long while, staring into nothingness as an alarming thought dawned on him: he was stuck here, at least for a little while. At least until he woke up or regenerated from the fatal bullet or found himself facing God.

And if he had to be here, he would have to play the part.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again so much for commenting! It means everything to me! Let me know if the Italian and Arabic are okay. I only used google translate. And now I'm hungry for baba ganoush.

No sooner had Joe unlocked the door did Amira grab his hand and pull him inside the loft. “Come on, come on!” she urged.  
  
“Okay,” Joe laughed. “Hang on a sec, let me—”  
  
“I drew you a picture in Art.” Amira made a beeline for the living room. She set her backpack on the couch and unzipped it.  
  
Joe beamed as he closed the door. It was just after three, and it took about four seconds for his—for _Amira_ —to run from the school and into his arms. Joe had changed into a long-sleeved shirt to hide the bandage on his arm. He didn’t want another breakdown like this morning. Amira chattered all the way home like a wind-up doll, asking what Joe had done all day, if his owie was any better, and if he would have to go to the hospital after all. Joe could barely get a word in edgewise, but he was more than content to watch her go on and on as they walked back to the apartment.  
  
He missed her more than he realized.  
  
“Let me see,” Joe said. He sat on the couch next to Amira as she unrolled the paper.  
  
“That’s you, that’s me, and that’s Papa,” Amira said, pointing to the appropriate stick figures. “I made it so you can a’member us.”  
  
Joe smiled widely. He thought his face might fall off from grinning so much. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”  
  
Amira tossed the art project aside and took her father’s hand again, urging him to stand. “Come on, come on!”  
  
Joe laughed as the child led him down the hall to her room. He stood in the doorway and watched as she rummaged in her closet for something. Daisies plastered the pink walls, along with finger paintings and watercolors Amira had done in school. Her bed was pink taffeta, frilly and small and oh-so girly.  
  
Amira pulled out a plastic box with a white lower-case ‘t’ on it and instructed Joe to sit on the floor. He did so, amused at what she might do next. Amira opened the plastic box and dumped out an array of toy medical supplies.  
  
“You need a check-up,” the little girl said.  
  
“Are you going to be my doctor?” Joe asked, smiling.  
  
“Yes, but don’t be scared, I won’t give you a shot.” She pulled out a blue plastic stethoscope and put the buds in her ears, then pressed the chestpiece to the wrong side over Joe’s right lung.  
  
Joe watched, increasingly infatuated as Amira tilted her head and listened to his breathing. If she had pressed the device to the correct spot, she would hear the erratic beating of his heart.  
  
It was official. Joe was smitten.  
  
Amira looked at her baba. “Your heart’s very fast,” she whispered, as if the organ in question could hear them.  
  
“Uh-oh,” Joe said, faking concern. “What does that mean?”  
  
Amira dug in the box again and pulled out a plastic thermometer. Before Joe could protest, she shoved it in his mouth. “No talking, please.” After a beat, she took the thermometer from his lips and studied it.  
  
“What’s the prognosis, doctor?” Joe asked.  
  
Amira put the thermometer back in the box and retrieved a small baggie of rainbow candies. “You have a tempature,” she said. She took a blue candy from the bag and held it out to Joe. “You need to take your medicine.”  
  
Joe took the candy and inspected it. It was an M&M. He laughed softly and popped it in his mouth. He raised his eyebrows to Amira as he chewed and the child watched with a teeth-baring grin.  
  
“Mmm,” Joe said, “all better, thank you.”  
  
Amira giggled and put the rest of her medical equipment back in the box. “Is your head still hurt?”  
  
Joe blinked softly at the little girl. She was so sweet, so unbelievably kind and warm. He thought of all the photos he had clicked through of the pivotal moments in her life—her first birthday, her first steps, her first day of preschool. Pride swelled in him. This may not have been a reality he was used to, but he was happy some part of him helped make her like this.  
  
He said to Amira, “Why don’t you give me a hug, and I’ll never be hurt again?”  
  
She didn’t hesitate. Amira wrapped her small arms around her baba’s neck and hugged him, resting her head on his shoulder. Joe closed his eyes and put his hand on her back, obliviously happy. She was his, through and through. Not even a bump on the head could change that.  
  
Across the loft, Joe heard the front door open and close.  
  
“Anyone home?” a voice called.  
  
Amira leapt out of her baba’s arms and jumped to her feet. “Papa’s home!” She darted out of the room in a flash.  
  
Joe stood and followed her trail to the entryway where Nicky was just closing the door. When he saw the little girl running to him, he set his bag down and picked her up in his arms.  
  
“ _Bellissima principessa_!” Nicky gave her three loud kisses on the cheek. “How was school?”  
  
“Good.”  
  
“Did Aunt Andy pick you up?”

Amira shook her head. “No, Baba did.”

Nicky looked over at Joe, who stood sheepishly by the hallway. “Andy had to work,” Joe said, making his way to the entry.  
  
Nicolo set Amira down and the child rushed to the adjoining living room. He approached his husband and touched Joe’s arm. “How’re you feeling?” Nicky asked.  
  
Joe felt himself getting choked up. He thought about their family photos, how happy and content they both seemed, how utterly perfect everything was. A small part of his brain yelled at him that all of this wasn’t real, that he was either hallucinating or dreaming, but Joe didn’t care anymore. If living with Nicky and Amira in bliss meant living in a fantasy, we would rather never wake up.  
  
Joe reached out and embraced Nicky, resting his chin on the man’s shoulder and rubbing his back the way he would when one or both of them had a brush with death.  
  
“Hey,” Nicky said, a soft chuckle in his voice. They parted and Nicky held Joe’s head. “You okay?”  
  
Joe nodded, pursing his lips to keep his tears of happiness in check. “I just love you so much,” he whispered.  
  
Nicky smiled. “I love you, too.”  
  
Joe leaned in for a kiss but they were interrupted by Amira tugging on Nicky’s coat. She held her art project up to him.  
  
“What’s this?” Nicky asked, kneeling to get a better look.  
  
Amira gave him the same spiel she had given Joe and grinned proudly at Nicky. He took the picture and looked it over with a smile. “Wow, this is nice. I think this one deserves to be on the fridge.” Nicky took the picture with him to the kitchen and set his messenger bag on the island counter.  
  
Amira followed and hopped up on the barstool across the counter. “Papa, is it true that if you swallow a watermelon seed, a watermelon will grow in your tummy?”  
  
“Where’d you here that?” Nicky asked, sticking Amira’s picture on the fridge with a magnet. He opened the door and rummaged through the shelves.  
  
“Melissa Pinkerton told me that a watermelon can grow in your tummy if you swallow the seeds.”  
  
Joe sat next to his daughter at the counter. “Who’s Melissa Pinkerton?”  
  
“She’s the tall one in Amira’s class with the glasses and freckles,” Nicky said, retrieving an apple from the crisper. He ran the fruit under the tap and wiped it off with a towel, the same towel Joe had used earlier this morning to dry Amira’s tears after she had found out that he was . . . well, _different_.  
  
“Melissa Pinkerton told me—um, she said that worms can’t feel pain.”  
  
“This Melissa girl sounds like a know-it-all,” Nicky said, poising a knife over the apple.  
  
“Cut it so I can see the star!” Amira cried.  
  
Nicky gave her a look. “ _Per favore_?”  
  
“ _Please_ cut it so I can see the star,” Amira corrected.  
  
“Well, I don’t know much about worms,” Nicky said, slicing the apple in half, “but a watermelon most certainly _cannot_ grow in your stomach.” He handed the child an apple half.  
  
Joe smiled as he watched Amira trace her fingers curiously over the star in the core. She took a bite and extended it to him. “Want some?”  
  
Joe laughed. “No thank you.”  
  
“Hey, you wanna go out tonight?” Nicky said.  
  
Joe looked at him. “Me?”  
  
Nicky leaned against the fridge. “No, my _other_ husband.”  
  
Joe blinked, taken aback. In his other life, Nicky rarely had to ask for them to go out together. As soon as a mission was done and they found themselves in a safe spot, Nicky and Joe drifted along to a restaurant or café or pub or simply to their bed to make love. It had been centuries since Joe had officially been asked out on a date.  
  
“You wanna go out with me?” Joe asked.  
  
Nicky chuckled. “Of course. It’s Friday. I feel like we could both use a break after this week.”  
_  
You have no idea_ , Joe thought. “What about Amira?”  
  
Nicky shrugged. “I’ll see if Andy’s available.” He looked at the little girl as she munched on the apple. “You want Aunt Andy to babysit tonight?”  
  
Amira threw her arms in the air. “Yeah!”  
  
0000000  
  
At first, Joe was relieved to see Andy. Then, as he watched her walk and talk, he was unsettled to see how subtly different this reality’s Andy was. She wore the same type of clothes—mostly black, mostly leather and denim. But her hair was a little longer and curled. She wore makeup. She walked with her shoulders back, light and airy, instead of down as though she were carrying the weight of the world on her spine. And she smiled. A lot.

Joe had showered and changed into a dressier long-sleeved shirt. He wasn’t ready to explain to Nicky what had happened with the knife. Joe mussed his hair up a little, knowing that Andy would probably tousle it like she did when she was happy to see him.

But as Andy entered the loft, she touched Joe’s shoulder and kissed his cheek like a midtown housewife at a charity function. “I’m sorry about earlier,” she said. “Turns out my lead was a bust, anyway. Everything good?”

Before Joe could answer, Andy went to the kitchen table. She ruffled Amira’s hair as the child scribbled with crayons, already dressed in her PJs.

“You need a vacation,” Nicky said, entering the kitchen from the hall. He rolled up the sleeves of his freshly-pressed red button-down. Nicky kissed Andy’s cheek and said, “Thanks for coming on short notice.”  
  
“No problem, doll,” Andy said.

 _Doll?_ Joe could have puked. Andy could be soft in her own way, but this imposter was downright saccharine. He was used to the pensive, distant Andy he knew from his old life. This Andy, though . . . she was too modern. Too vivacious. Too _American_.  
  
“We shouldn’t be out late,” Nicky said. “Bedtime is nine, and that’s _not_ Monaco time.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah,” Andy waved him off. She bent over next to Amira and said to the child, “Your daddy’s a real stickler for bedtime, isn’t he?”  
  
“What’s a stickler?” Amira asked.  
`  
“And _please_ don’t try to teach her poker like last time,” Nicky begged as he grabbed his coat. “I don’t want to hear that she’s gambled away her college fund.”  
  
“No poker. Check.” Andy settled her eyes on Joe. “You’re pretty quiet tonight, honey. What’s wrong?”  
  
Joe closed his gaping mouth. “Uh—”  
  
“We’ve gotta go, Andy.” Nicky went to the table and leaned next to Amira. “Be good, okay?”  
  
“Okay,” Amira said  
  
Nicky kissed her three times on the cheek quickly, a signature between them that Joe was beginning to notice. He went to her side and whispered, “You gonna be alright?”  
  
“Don’t worry, Baba,” Amira whispered back. “Aunty Andy’s real nice.”  
  
Joe grinned. He kissed the top of her head. “Goodnight, Amira.”  
  
“ _Linadhhab, habibi_ ,” Nicky said, holding his hand out to Joe.  
  
Joe looked at Nicky’s hand, at the ring on his second-to-last finger. He smiled gently and took it, feeling a warm, bubbly sensation rising within him. No matter what reality he was in, Joe knew the feeling of taking his lover’s hand would never go away.  
  
0000000  
  
Joe wasn’t sure what to expect when he hopped in a cab with Nicky. He was dying for a _sabich_ and said as much to Nicky, but he wasn’t as familiar with New York as he was Milan or Paris or even London.

Nicky had the driver take them to an Israeli restaurant in Soho. The long, dimly-lit eatery was pressed between a bakery and a flower shop. They ordered tea and baba ganoush with pita triangles. For a moment, Joe was able to pretend he hadn’t awoken in a strange new world. He closed his eyes and made believe they were in Tel Aviv, fresh from a successful mission and biding their time until Copley called on them again for a new adventure.

“I have _so_ many papers to grade this weekend,” Nicky said as he studied the menu.

Joe opened his eyes. The dream was dead. Looking at Nicolo, Joe suddenly felt very nervous, as though he were on a first date. This Nicky was still the same in most ways. He still had the same handsome face, same affinity for languages. He was overflowing with kindness and love, and he looked at Joe like he was the only man in the world who mattered.

But this was not his Nicolo. Not really. There had been different memories made here. Time was a ticking clock instead of a long, endless exhale. That kind of finality would change anyone, no matter what parallel universe he was in.

Nicky peered at his husband. “Are you okay, Joe?”  
  
“Uh . . .” Joe swallowed. “Yeah. Why?”  
  
“You seem different.” Nicky leaned back in his chair and ponderously watched Yusuf. “I don’t know, you seem really reserved. Like, you’re nervous about something.”  
  
Joe looked down at his tea. Part of him wanted to tell Nicky everything. He was desperate for someone to lean on, to tell him that they would figure it out and things would be okay. But it wasn’t a possibility. Even someone as devout to the unknowns of religion as Nicky was couldn’t handle it.

Joe sipped his tea and an idea dawned on him. He tested the waters by asking, “Do you remember that time in Malta?”

Joe’s heart raced as Nicky’s brows furrowed.

“Which time in Malta?” Nicky asked.

A swell of hope rose in Joe’s chest. He raised a flirty brow and smirked.

“Oh,” Nicky said, smiling. “ _That_ time in Malta. Our honeymoon.”

Joe’s smile faded slightly. He wondered if their honeymoon was anything like that _real_ time in Malta Joe had been thinking of. Did they have the same long conversations into the night? Did they eat the same desserts and drink the same wine? Was lovemaking completely different in this reality?

“ _Sei di nuovo nervoso_ ,” said Nicky. _You’re nervous again_.

Joe shook his head. “ _È stata una lunga giornata_.” _It’s been a long day_.

Nicky blinked softly, studying Yusuf’s face. He reached across the table and took Joe’s hand in his.

Suddenly, a loud _BANG!_ sounded just outside of the restaurant. Joe sprang to his feet and put his body in front of Nicky’s. He reached for a weapon in his belt that wasn’t there.

“Hey, easy!” Nicky cried. He put his hand on Joe’s arm. “It’s just a car backfiring.”

Joe’s heart sped as he looked across the restaurant to the large windows facing the street. There was no one with a gun, no snipers or drug runners or mercenaries.

“ _Calma_ ,” Nicky said gently.  
  
“Sorry,” Joe said, looking down at his lover. “I’m sorry. I need to—I’ll be right back.”  
  
Joe stumbled away from the table and went straight to the empty bathroom. He turned the faucet on and splashed cold water on his face.  
  
_Get a grip._ _  
_  
Joe looked at his reflection in the mirror. This wasn’t him. He wasn’t a husband or a father or some workaday Krav Maga instructor. He was a trained warrior, a man who had survived centuries of death only to get back up a moment later and keep fighting. Being mortal was scary, a black stain on the back of his mind. But ironically, being out of constant danger was frightening, as well. He didn’t know what do without an enemy to eradicate. He didn’t know who he was anymore.  
  
0000000  
  
“Okay, doll, show me your hand.”  
  
Amira slapped down her hand of cards as her teddy bear, Mr. Franklin, watched in the other chair. Mr. Franklin was out ten bucks and had duds for cards.  
  
Amira proudly said, “I got a ten, a six, a four, a joker, and a king.”  
  
Andy peered over her own cards at the child’s hand. “Ooh, lucky you. That’s a pretty good hand, kiddo.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Uh-huh.”  
  
“What about you?”  
  
Andy set her cards down face-up. “All I got is a lousy flush. You beat me again, babygirl.”  
  
“Yay!” Amira scooped up her winnings, a handful of goldfish crackers.  
  
Andy smirked and took a sip from her juice box, courtesy of Amira. “What say we go again, double or nothing?”  
  
“Okay,” Amira shoved her cards towards Andy and popped a goldfish in her mouth.  
  
Andy shuffled the deck and eyed the little girl. “So your baba’s been acting a little funny. What’s the story?”  
  
“He has a owie on his head,” Amira said, feeing a goldfish to Mr. Franklin.  
  
“An owie, huh? How come no one told me?”  
  
Amira shrugged. “I dunno.”  
  
Andy raised her brows and dealt the cards to the child. “Guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Nicky probably didn’t want me to worry.” She looked at Amira as she dealt. “Is your baba feeling okay?”  
  
“He got hurted. He’s different now.”  
  
Andy stopped dealing and set the cards down. “What do you mean?”  
  
Amira slowly looked up at her. “I’m not s’posed to tell.”  
  
“Says who?”  
  
“Baba told me not to tell.”  
  
“Did he tell you not to tell _me_?”  
  
Amira considered this for a moment. “No.”  
  
“Then what’s the secret, doll?”  
  
Amira put a strand of hair in her mouth and nervously sucked on it. “He says . . .”  
  
Andy leaned closer. “It’s okay, sweetie, you’re not gonna get in trouble.”  
  
Amira looked at the table, then back at her aunty. She slumped in her chair, feeling like a dirty old tattle-tale. “He says he doesn’t remember us.”


	4. Chapter 4

After assuring Nicky he was okay, Joe spent the rest of the dinner with a smile and witty banter. He didn’t want to arouse any more suspicion than he already had. Thankfully, it was as easy to be with Nicky in this reality as the other one. Nicolo smiled in the same reserved way whenever Joe cracked a joke. He sipped his tea the same way, ate the same way by adorably licking his fingers. Joe watching him tenderly, his heart fluttering. By dessert, his anxiety had completely disappeared.

They paid the bill and leisurely walked out of the restaurant. Nicky checked his watch and said, “It’s still early. Nightcap?”

Joe grinned. “Sure. I could use one.”

Nicky slipped his hand into Joe’s and walked with him down the sidewalk. Joe followed, confident in whatever routine they had established in the past. They walked back to Greenwich and came to a quiet pub just a few blocks from their apartment. Inside, the lights were dim and the exposed brick held photos of famous jazz musicians.

The pair sat at the bar. Joe ordered a whiskey and Nicky got a glass of red. The pub was packed but the patrons spoke in low voices, as if everyone knew this was a place to relax and reflect rather than drink to forget.

“I hoped there would be music tonight,” Nicky said.

“It’s not too late to find another place,” Joe offered.

Nicky laughed. “But this is _our_ place, _amore_.”

Joe smiled and took a drink. Of course they had a place. In his other life, they had a place in almost every continent—a pub or a lounge or a speakeasy. With time irrelevant, they had a spot in every place of the world to drink and enjoy each other’s company. Here, though, they had this pub. A small escape for only a few hours.

Joe drank again and asked carefully, “What would you do if you could live forever?”

Nicky leaned his elbow against the bar, facing his husband. He considered the question, then shrugged. “I wouldn’t want to.”

“Why not?” Joe asked.

“Because it’s against nature,” Nicky replied. “To die is human. And besides—” he sipped his wine “—forever would get very boring.”

Joe looked into his amber glass of liquor. He suddenly missed the old Nicky, the one content to spend years and years by Joe’s side. It never felt boring, not for a second. If this Nicky somehow became immortal, Joe wondered if they would spend their time the same way, side by side through anything.

“I would never get bored.” Joe grinned. “Not if I had you.”

“You say that now,” Nicky laughed, “But a hundred years in, you would crack.”

Joe chuckled. He thought of the first hundred years with Nicky in his other life. It might as well have been a hundred days. There were moments when Joe felt exasperated, when he needed time to himself on a beach or hiking through the woods. But he always came back to Nicolo. No matter what, he would always come back.

Joe twitched as a voice rang in his head, “ _Yusuf, destati_!”

His brain felt like it was being pulled in another direction.

“ _Come back_ ,” the voice whispered.

Joe blinked.

“Hey, come back!” a voiced shouted from over Joe’s shoulder.

Nicky and Joe turned. A man was chasing a pretty blonde out of the pub in a lover’s quarrel. Joe pushed his drink away. His head swayed.

0000000000  
  
Just as Andy was about to deal one last hand for Amira, she heard the front door unlocking. “Crap, your dads are home!” Andy shooed Amira away with her hand. “Get to bed, quick!”  
  
Remembering the drill, Amira jumped off her chair and hustled down the hall to her room. Just as Joe and Nicky entered the loft, Andy scooped up the poker cards and shoved them in her purse.  
  
“Hey, Andy,” Nicky said. “How’d it go?”  
  
Joe looked down the hall just in time to see Amira closing the door of her room. He hung his jacket by the door and made his way to the child’s room.  
  
“Andy, I told you no poker,” Nicky sighed, motioning to the hand of cards laid out before Amira’s stuffed bear.  
  
“I wasn’t playing poker with Amira.” Andy stood with her hand on her hip. She pointed to the bear. “Mr. Franklin here wanted me to teach him.”  
  
“Uh-huh.”  
  
“Anyway, how was your date?”  
  
Nicky cracked a smile as he hung his coat up. “It was good. I don’t know, it reminded me a little of when we first started dating. The way he kept looking at me . . .” Nicky chuckled. “ _Non lo so_.” Nicky shook his head in defeat and held out a wad of money.

Andy pushed the cash away. “You know your money’s no good to me.” She hitched her purse over her shoulder. “Listen, about Joe. Um . . .” She worried her bottom lip. “We gotta talk about something. Something important.”  
  
0000000  
  
Joe slowly opened the door to Amira’s room just as the little girl threw the covers over her head. He grinned and stepped inside the room, leaving the door open a crack for light. He went to the bedside and knelt near the edge. Joe lifted the blanket up from Amira’s head. She lay on her stomach, eyes closed tightly as she pretended to snore.  
  
“Hey,” Joe whispered. He carefully brushed a strand of hair from her face. “I know you’re awake, Amira.”  
  
The little girl fluttered her eyes open. She waved at Joe with her fingers. “Hi, Baba.”  
  
Joe’s smile grew. “What’re you doing up?” he asked.  
  
Amira tucked her fist under her chin and looked down, hesitant. She didn’t want to betray her aunt. “I dunno.”  
  
“Did you have fun tonight?” Joe asked.  
  
Amira smiled and nodded at her father. “Yes. She teached me poker again.”  
  
Joe rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Of course she did.” He sighed as he looked at his daughter. “You should try and sleep.”  
  
“Will you sing to me?”  
  
“Sing?”  
  
“You always sing to me when I can’t sleep.”  
  
“Oh.” Joe raised his brows and sat on his hunches. He was not a singer, not even in the old days when all he and Nicky had to keep busy in their downtime was counting clouds and smoking hash. Joe asked, “What do I usually sing?”  
  
“‘ _Alnuwm ya tiflay_.’”  
  
Joe’s face dropped. ‘Sleep, my baby.’ It was an Arabic lullaby he hadn’t thought of in hundreds of years, but the second he heard Amira whisper it, a flood of memories washed over Joe. Basbousa in a warm kitchen. A blanket of stars over the desert sky. Joe’s father and brothers chatting and laughing around the fire.

Tears filled Joe’s eyes and he whispered, “My mother used to sing that me when I was your age.”  
  
Amira looked at him, hopeful and expectant. She looked so small in the mountain of her blankets, so unobtrusive. “Can you sing to me?”  
  
Joe’s cheeks burned and he swallowed down the hot tears bubbling within him. “Okay, um . . .” He laughed gently and sang in Arabic, “ _Sleep, my baby . . . drift into the clouds. Sleep and know you are loved . . . My baby, my love . . ._ ”  
  
Joe stroked Amira’s hair as he sang. For the first time since he had woken into this topsy-turvy world, he felt like he belonged. He felt love for a child who was his but wasn’t his. He saw himself the way Amira saw him—as a father.

To his surprise, Amira opened her mouth and softly sang the next lines: “ _You are a star in the night sky_ —”  
  
“ _So sleep and shine on me_ ,” they sang together.  
  
Joe smiled at his daughter, and she smiled back. Amira reached out and traced her finger along his cheek. “You’re my baba,” she said.  
  
Joe traced his own finger along her small, soft cheek. “You’re my Amira.” His heart jackhammered in his chest. He felt the way he did when he first said ‘I love you’ to Nicky centuries ago. He felt like he was part of a family.  
  
“Goodnight, Baba,” Amira whispered.  
  
Joe leaned over and pressed his lips to her forehead. Her skin was warm and baby-fresh. “Goodnight, Amira.” He tucked her in the bed. “I love you.”  
  
The words were just as powerful as when he would say it to Nicky. It was so obvious, so simple. There was no need to think about it or agonize over the whether it was an illusion or a dream. He loved this little girl. In addition to Nicky, it was the most real thing he had felt in this world.  
  
“I love you, too,” Amira said.  
  
0000000  
  
Andy was already gone by the time Joe left Amira in her room. Nicky was in the kitchen cleaning up. Joe felt light and happy, as serene as when he had prayed earlier that day. He wanted to cap the perfect night off in the arms of his lover.  
  
Nicky was wiping the countertop down when Joe approached him and wrapped his arms around his waist from behind. Joe kissed the nape of his husband’s neck and hummed contentedly. “Thank you for taking me out tonight,” he murmured.

Nicky placed a hand over Joe’s entwined fingers as they rested on his stomach. He turned and looked at Joe, his face a mess of concern.

Joe’s smile faded. “What?” he asked.  
  
Nicky’s eyes burrowed deeply into Joe’s. He edged away from his embrace and crossed his arms over his chest. “Joe, what year is it?”  
  
Joe’s knees locked. “Huh?”  
  
“Can you tell me what year it is?”  
  
“It’s . . .2020. Why?”  
  
“What’s Amira’s birthday?”  
  
Joe’s breath hitched in his chest. Oh, God. Did Nicky somehow know? Had he figured out something was wrong the same way Amira had earlier this morning?  
  
“Uh . . . ” He faked a confused laugh and said, “2015.”  
  
“The month and day,” Nicky insisted.  
  
Joe swallowed the rock in his throat. “ _Limadha tas’al_?” _Why are you asking?_

  
“ _Arjwk ajbny_ ,” said Nicky. _Please answer me_.

Joe bided his time by laughing again and turning to the fridge. He opened the door and slowly took out a beer. Joe dug deep into his memory to pull a date from the dozens of photos and documents he had searched through earlier this morning. April . . . something. He twisted the cap off the beer and drank. April . . .

Joe turned, gave his husband a reassuring smile, and said, “April 10th.”  
  
Nicky uncrossed his arms and the concern left his face. A look of guilt replaced it as he sighed and shook his head. “I’m sorry. Andy told me that Amira said you were having trouble remembering things.”  
 _  
Oh God, oh God—_  
  
“Well . . . I’m fine. Really.” Joe forced a smile.  
  
“Are you sure?” Nicky asked. “Joe, you’ve been acting weird all day. And then at the restaurant, it was like you were a completely different person—”  
  
“I’m just . . .” Joe sighed, frustrated. He didn’t want to worry Nicky, didn’t want to revert back to a clueless fool who didn’t belong when he was just getting used to being a husband and father. He had come too far. Joe took Nicky’s hand and said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to freak you out.”  
  
Nicky reached out and stroked Joe’s hair. “If there’s something you need to tell me . . . anything. You can say it.”  
  
Joe stared at Nicky. The truth danced on his tongue. Maybe, in some weird way, the man would understand. More than likely, he’d have him committed to a mental hospital and Joe would never see another reality again. Still. The urge to tell some version of the truth was like a beast clawing its way at his gut.  
  
“The truth?”  
  
Nicky nodded.  
  
Joe sighed. “The truth is, I . . . I kind of feel like I’ve been awakened. Like, um—I’ve been thinking so much about where I _should_ be, I didn’t realize that I already have everything with you and Amira. And I just . . .” Joe shook his head and clenched his jaw. “I love you. I-I love Amira.”  
  
“Joe—”  
  
“And I’m glad I’m here. With you. I’m glad I can be here and experience this.”  
  
Nicky smiled, the glint of worry diminishing in his eyes. “It’s nice you feel that way.” He kissed Joe softly on the mouth.

Joe leaned into the kiss, lingering just enough to let Nicky know that he meant every word. When they parted, Joe touched his forehead to his husband’s. No other words were needed. The way he felt was the same as it was for Joe in his other reality. Tender. Caring. No amount of time-hopping or divine intervention could lessen it.  
  
Nicky finally pulled away and squeezed Joe’s hand. “I’m going to bed.” He made his way to the hall, then stopped just short of exiting the kitchen. He turned to Joe. “Coming?”  
  
Joe smiled. Nothing sounded better than falling asleep in Nicky’s arms. He followed his husband down the hall, then nearly stopped as a thought occurred to him. Fear reached its icy hand out and slowly, achingly, gripped Joe’s heart. If he slept, would he wake in this world or the other?  
  
The thought of leaving this new, wonderful life was now unthinkable.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if the translations suck. I'm using Google and they might not be 100% accurate. As always, thank you so much for reading and commenting! I love you guys!

Joe dreamed in fragments and fog. Images flashed before him like splices of film. A dank concrete ceiling. White light. A pair of shaky hands. Andy hovering over him with blood on her face.  
  
Nicky was yelling, “ . . . awake! Can . . . see—”

Andy’s voice, muffled: “ _Cuanto tiempo más_?”  
  
More images of trembling hands. An unfamiliar man’s voice.

Darkness.

Darkness.

Nicky crying and shouting, “ _Continuate così_!”

Darkness.

Hands on his head, his neck, his shoulder his—  
  
“We’re going to the aquarium! We’re going to the aquarium!”  
  
Joe jerked awake as the bedroom door swung open. Amira ran in the room, jumping up and down like a puppy. He reached over for Nicky, hazy, confused, a slight ringing in his ear. Nicky stirred and raised his head from the pillow. His hair was an adorable mess and his eyes had a puffy bleariness from being roused.  
  
“Mmph.”  
  
“Papa, wake up! We’re going to the aquarium!” Amira cried, jumping into the bed and crawling between her dads to shake Nicky.  
  
“What’s going on?” Joe muttered.  
  
“We promised . . . we were gonna take her to the aquarium today. Remember?”  
  
Joe rolled over onto his back as Amira bounced on the bed on her knees. He wished he could have been here for that promise. He wished he had been here for so many things.  
  
“C’mon, c’mon!” Amira urged, tugging her father’s hand. “The fishies are waking up!”  
  
“ _Calmati, tesoro_ ,” Nicky said. “We’re not going until after lunch.”  
  
“I’m gonna get dressed!” Amira said, scrambling her way back out of the bed. She stumbled to the floor and fell with a _thud_ out of Joe’s eyesight. “Ow!”  
  
“You okay?” Joe asked, sitting up.  
  
Amira popped back up to her feet. “I’m fine!” She ran out of the room, singing, “We’re going to the aquarium! We’re going to the aquarium!”  
  
When Joe was showered and dressed for the day, he went to Amira’s room to make sure she was ready for the day. He caught her looking in her floor-length mirror, wearing a pink tutu over her pants with a lime green shirt, chunky play jewelry, and a pink crown atop her head. She saw him looking in the reflection and whipped around, holding her arms up.  
  
“How do I look?” she asked.  
  
Joe could only smile. It amazed him every second that something as precious as Amira could be his. He picked her up in his arms. “You, _principessa_ , look very beautiful.” Joe scrunched his nose. “But I think the fish might get scared by your crown and dress.”  
  
“Baba, do they have frogs at the aquarium?” Amira asked her father carried her out of her room and down the hall.  
  
“Frogs? I don’t know. Why?”  
  
“’Cause if I see a frog, I’ll kiss him and he’ll turn into a prince!”  
  
“You will?” Joe set the child on a seat at the table. “You’re not scared of the frog?”  
  
“No, ‘cause—‘cause he’s not _really_ a frog. He’s a prince!”  
  
“Oh, right.” Joe looked in the cabinet and spotted a box of Cheerios. He took two bowls from the shelf and made breakfast for him and his daughter.  
  
“Baba, is Papa your prince?”  
  
Joe stopped at the child’s question. A smile grew on his face as he thought of how warm Nicky felt sleeping next to him last night, how the man had rolled over and curled next to him just as soon as Joe had laid down. It was every bit as special as his other reality when they had a few hours by themselves, stowed in a boxcar or a cargo plane. Only now it was . . . finite. Without immortality, sleeping in Nicky’s arms was something to be savored even more.  
  
“Yeah,” Joe nodded. “He’s my prince.” He looked over his shoulder at Amira. The little girl blushed and giggled, pulling her tiara down over his eyes.  
  
As Joe finished making the cereal, he heated up some instant coffee and sat with his daughter to eat. Amira immediately insisted that she have a mug just like him to drink her milk from. Joe relented, knowing he couldn’t say no to her sweet smile.  
  
As they ate, Joe noticed that Amira kept her eyes on him, mimicking his actions like a mirror. She spooned her cereal in her mouth when he did, set her elbow on the table like him, and every time Joe drank from his mug, Amira quickly dropped her spoon and followed suit.  
  
Joe chuckled. “Why do you keep copying me?” he asked.  
  
“She’s flirting with you.”  
  
Nicky entered the adjoined dining room from the hallway. He was showered and dressed for the day, the smell of his shampoo and aftershave lingering in his step. The smell made Joe dizzy with affection. Nicky leaned over his husband, that delicious scent enveloping Joe’s every sense, and kissed his left temple.  
  
“ _Buongiorno_.”  
  
Joe smiled. “Good morning.” He could have melted into his bowl of soggy Cherrios.  
  
Nicky moved around the table and kissed Amira’s cheek three times. “Good morning, _dolcezza_.”  
  
“Good morning!” Amira chirped. “Papa, I’m gonna kiss a frog at the aquarium.”  
  
Nicky turned slightly as he made his way to the fridge. “A frog?” He took a carton of orange juice from the door of the fridge. “Be careful, they kiss back.”  
  
“They do?” Amira asked.  
  
“ _Si_. Just ask your baba. He was a frog before I kissed him.”  
  
Amira looked at her father. Joe smiled slowly at Nicky as the poured himself a glass of juice. He then gave his daughter a wink and sipped his coffee.  
  
0000000  
  
“Look, look! The dolphins!”  
  
Joe chuckled as he watched Amira run out before him and Nicky, ushering them along the concrete, chlorine-smelling corridor to the dolphin exhibit. A floor-to-ceiling panel of glass separated them from hundreds of gallons of water and two graceful dolphins. A small crowd was beginning to form as the creatures came out to play.  
  
Nicky took Joe’s hand and bumped his shoulder against his husband’s. They approached the tank and Amira climbed up on the cement ledge, pressing her nose to the glass to catch a glimpse of the friendly creatures.  
  
“Baba, can dolphins smell?”  
  
Joe smiled at her. He thought his face might fall off from all the grinning. “I don’t know, Amira.”  
  
“Did you know that dolphins can have families like ours?” Nicky asked his daughter.  
  
Amira looked at him. “Really?”  
  
“ _Sì, naturalmente_. Sometimes two boy dolphins or two girl dolphins can fall in love and have a family, just like us.”  
  
“Where do the babies come from?”  
  
“The same way you came to us,” Nicky said, lifting her off the ledge and setting her back on her feet. “They ask the angels to send them a baby.”  
  
Joe’s heart melted at Nicky’s explanation. It was perfect. They were perfect. It was a warm spring day and he was at the aquarium with the two people he knew he couldn’t live without. Just a few days ago, Joe was dodging bullets and fretting over Nicky’s safety. Now, being with his family, two halves of his heart, he questioned how he could ever go back.  
  
“Melissa Pinkerton told me starfish are poisonous. Is that true?”  
  
They were walking through the interactive exhibit now, close to two o’clock, and Amira was wedged between her two fathers, holding one hand of each.  
  
“I’m not sure how I feel about this Melissa Pinkerton girl,” Joe said to his husband.  
  
“Whatever she tells you, Amira,” Nicky said, “just take it with a grain of salt.”  
  
“What does that mean?”  
  
“It means she might not be telling the truth.”  
  
They came to a crustacean exhibit, a small pool of water where a wildlife expert was demonstrating where crabs and lobsters lived. She held a yellow starfish in her hand, small and fake-looking. Children gathered around her to look at it, hoping to see it move.  
  
“Do you want to touch it?” the woman asked, holding it out to Amira.  
  
Amira shrunk back and buried her face into Joe’s hip. She shook her head vigorously, no.  
  
“It’s okay,” Joe laughed. “They’re not poisonous.” He rubbed her back reassuringly. It was the first time he had seen her scared since she cried yesterday morning.  
  
“Can we see the angel fish instead?” Amira asked, looking up at her father with a pair of impossibly large, pleading eyes.  
  
“Sure,” Joe said.  
  
Later, they admired the penguins and searched for clownfish (or, “Nemo” as Amira called it). Though Amira was afraid of the starfish, she wasn’t shy brushing her fingers along a stingray in the wading pool. Joe took more interest in his daughter’s wide-eyed curiosity than the fish themselves. Every time she gazed at the coral or traced her finger along the glass for the seahorses to follow, a loving feeling swelled in Joe like a gust of warm wind. It made him smile every time.  
  
Before they left, Joe went to the men’s room to wash the fish smell from his hands. Amira had insisted that he put his hand in the wading pool to touch the backside of a blacktip reef shark, and after a quick jibe from Nicky, he relented.  
  
Joe ran his hands under the warm tap and glanced at himself in the mirror. He was grinning. Had he ever been this happy before? Was the aquarium ever this interesting? And why did his face look leaner, brighter, more full of life?  
 _  
“Cuanto tiempo más?”_  
  
Joe blinked. A split-second image came to his head, the same one from his dream last night—of a dark, dirty concrete ceiling and a pair of quivering hands. Joe turned the faucet off and leaned against the sink.  
  
 _“Yusuf, destati!”_  
  
Another image from last night—Andy’s blood-covered face. Nicky, sobbing.  
  
Joe gripped the edge of the sink tighter, his head swaying. He tried to focus on his reflection, but his eyes glazed over, his vision blurred—  
  
 _“Continuate così!”  
_  
Joe blinked heavily. His head swayed and he suddenly felt like he was falling fast, so fast . . .  
  
Vertigo.  
  
 _A familiar voice he had head last night at the bar, “Come back.”_  
  
Joe stumbled. He gripped the sink again before he could fall. Slowly, the dizziness subsided. His vision returned to normal. Joe looked in his reflection and could see a small drop of blood coming from his left nostril.  
  
“You okay?”  
  
Joe jumped at the voice. He saw a man in his reflection behind his shoulder, looking worriedly at him as though he might faint. Joe wiped the blood from under his nose with the back of his hand and nodded.  
  
“Yeah,” he said. “Allergies, ya know?”  
  
“Do you need me to—?”  
  
“I’m fine, really.”  
  
And he was. The bleeding had already stopped, and besides a slight ringing in his ears, Joe felt almost normal again. No more blurriness. No more vertigo.  
  
No more voices in his head.  
  
Joe splashed cold water on his face, dried himself off, and took a deep breath. He gave his reflection a cautious eye and exited the bathroom. His family was waiting for him in the lobby. Nicolo tickled Amira as he held her against him. She squealed and tried in vain to get away, but Nicky’s fatherly arms held her in place. Joe smiled shakily as he approached them.  
  
Nicky noticed Joe and gave him a nod. “Ready?” He stopped and his face got serious. “Are you alright?”  
  
“Yeah, why?”  
  
“You look a little pale.”  
  
Joe shrugged, struggling to appear normal. “I’m fine. I’m . . .” He glanced at Amira, who was watching him just as intently as Nicky. “I’m _starving_!” Joe picked Amira up. “How about we go home and order a pizza?”  
  
“Yay!” Amira squealed.  
  
As they walked out of the lobby, Nicky put his hand on Joe’s back and whispered, “You sure you’re okay?”  
  
Joe looked at his husband. “I’m great.” He eked out a reassuring grin. “I’m going home with my family.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: NSFW chapter. I wasn't gonna write a sex scene, but you guys deserve it for being so patient. Thank you! But also, I'm bad a sex scenes, so I'm sorry. LOL

Usually around this time on a Saturday night, if they weren’t on a mission or traveling to said mission, Joe would have found himself drinking at a pub with Booker or sharing a bottle of expensive wine with Andy and Nile and Nicky. He anticipated a Sunday hangover as much as he anticipated the weight of an M&P 15-22 rifle in the outskirts of an occupied city. It was routine. Comfortable.  
  
Now, it was different. Now, it was ten o’clock on a Saturday night and Joe found himself sitting on a couch with his family in front of the TV, full from pizza and buzzed from the glass of wine Nicky had poured for him. The sitting room was dark, save for the glow of the TV that played the last few scenes of _The Wizard of Oz_. Amira was asleep, cuddled up next to Nicky as he graded papers. Joe sat by them, close enough for Nicky’s hand to idly stroke the back of his head.  
  
It was ordinary.  
  
Tame.  
  
Joe had never felt happier.  
  
_“You don’t need to be helped any longer,”_ Glinda said to Dorothy on the television, _“you’ve always had the power to go back to Kansas.”_  
  
Joe glanced at Nicky, who was sporting a pair of thick-rimmed glasses. Even though it was a bitter reminder that they were no longer immortal, that they aged as easily and gracelessly as anyone else, there was something alluring about them. Joe was always a sucker for the studious type.  
  
_“What have you learned, Dorothy?”_ the Tinman asked a young, teary-eyed Judy Garland.  
  
Amira stirred in her sleep, digging her small head deeper into Nicky’s side. Nicky noticed Joe staring at him and furrowed his eyebrows. “What?” he whispered with a laugh.  
  
Joe grinned.  
  
_“If I ever go looking for my heart’s desire again,”_ said Dorothy, _“I won’t look any further than my own backyard . . .”_  
  
“You’re so beautiful,” Joe said.  
  
Nicky laughed softly, causing Amira to shift again. He took his glasses off and tossed them on the coffee table. “I think it’s bedtime,” he said. Nicky set his papers on the coffee table and gently cradled Amira in his arms, careful not to wake her as he stood.  
  
Joe got to his feet. “You need me to—?”  
  
“I’ve got her,” Nicky whispered. “Can you turn the TV off?”  
  
Joe nodded. He watch Nicky, his husband, his best friend, carry their daughter—yes, she was _their_ daughter—to the hallway.  
  
_“Oh, it’s—it’s going to be so hard to say goodbye,”_ Dorothy said. _“I love you all!”_  
  
As Nicky flipped the hall light on, Joe turned the TV off. He collected the wineglasses and paper plates with pizza crusts and brought them to the kitchen. After cleaning up a bit, he went down the hall to Amira’s room.  
  
Nicky was just tucking Amira in. Joe leaned against the doorframe and smiled as he watched his husband kiss their child three times gently on the forehead. Amira snoozed away, unburdened by the waking world. Nicky whispered something to her, then stood and turned. He put a finger to his lips to signal Joe’s silence and quietly exited the room with him. Nicky closed the door gently.  
  
“I’ll go wash the dishes.”  
  
“Already taken care of,” Joe said.  
  
“Hmm.” Nicky raised his eyebrows and grinned. “Thank you.” He leaned in and kissed Joe on the mouth. It was a slow, heavy kind of kiss. Chaste, but meaningful. Joe felt it linger on his skin long after Nicky pulled away and turned down the hall to their room.  
  
_Their room._ _  
_  
Where they slept together. Peacefully. Where no one would be barging in with gunfire or flash bombs or supernatural nightmares. Joe followed his husband’s scent of spice and sweat and chlorine of the aquarium they had visited earlier.  
Joe stepped into their room and closed the door slowly, watching as Nicky rummaged through the drawers of their dresser.  
  
“Amira went down fast,” Nicky said. “At this rate, she’ll never get to see the whole movie.”  
  
Joe leaned back against the door as Nicky took off his shirt. His eyes wandered over the man’s arms and chest, his smooth back and broad shoulders. Surprisingly, Nicky of this world didn’t look much different than Nicky of Joe’s reality. He was still as handsome and well-built as ever, moreso from a gym, Joe thought, than lugging around weapons and fighting breathlessly with terrorists. As Nicky unbuckled his belt, Joe felt a rush of arousal coursing through his veins. He reached behind and locked the door.  
  
“I’m beat,” Nicky said, still looking through the top drawer for a nightshirt.  
  
Joe approached Nicky slowly, carefully, taking in the man’s naked torso as much as he could. He swallowed hard, his palms sweaty. Joe wanted Nicky, but there was a part of him, his overly-cautious side, that wondered if Nicky would see the difference in their lovemaking. In his other life, the pair had nearly a millennium to learn new ways to devour each other. How far along had they come in this life, and was it already enough for Nicky?  
  
Joe pushed those thoughts aside. Desire was still desire, no matter how long they had been together. He advanced Nicky from behind, snaking his arms around the man’s waist. Joe kissed the crook of his neck, running his hands up Nicky’s chest.  
  
“Mm,” Nicky sighed. “That feels good.”  
  
Joe kissed his neck, his shoulder, his lips feather-light. Nicky turned and wrapped his arms around Joe’s neck, pulling him in for a long, deep kiss. Joe parted his mouth and danced his tongue along Nicky’s, probing deeper and eliciting a moan from himself. He pressed the small of Nicky’s back to urge him closer.  
  
“Mmph,” Nicky said through the kiss, “wait.”  
  
They parted. Joe looked at Nicky, startled, worried he had already messed up. “What’s wrong?”  
  
“What about Amira?”  
  
“I locked the door,” Joe said, moving in closer. He pressed his lips to his husband’s.  
  
Nicky moaned, raking his hands through Joe’s hair. Theirs tongues touched again, mouths breathing hot air into one another, and suddenly Joe felt himself moving backwards toward the bed, holding Nicky’s hips as though he might fall away.  
  
Joe sat on the edge of the bed. Nicky straddled Joe and unbuttoned his shirt, letting it fall open as they made out. Joe squeezed Nicky closer, urging him to rub up against him to ease the strain of his growing erection through his jeans. Nicky conceded, grinding his hips into Joe’s until the man fell backwards onto the bed.  
  
Nicky hovered over him, his hands on either side of Joe’s head for support. He stared down at him for a moment, a look of undeniable lust in his eyes. His look was exactly the same as all the other times they were about to have sex, unchanged even in an altered reality.  
  
“You look different,” Nicky said.  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
Nicky shook his head slowly. “I don’t know. It’s almost like . . .” He cocked his head to the side, as though Joe were a puzzle he couldn’t figure out. “You seem younger. Like you haven’t aged in years.”  
  
Joe’s heart leapt in his throat. No. Was Nicky finally figuring it out? Was he going to freak out as much as Amira had? _Please, just let me have this night_ , Joe thought. _Please, just give me this first . . ._ _  
_  
Then, as if Nicky could read his mind, he bent down and captured Joe’s mouth in a slow, thoughtful kiss. Joe put his hands on Nicky’s face, his heart beating a mile a minute. Nicky parted and touched his forehead to his partner’s.  
  
“ _Ti amo_.”  
  
Joe closed his eyes and smiled softly. “I love you, too.”  
  
With that admission, Nicky kissed him again and slowly trailed his hand down Joe’s chest to his belt buckle. Joe opened his eyes, intent on experiencing every possible moment.  
  
0000000  
  
Joe didn’t know what time it was. Up was down, black was white. He was sweating and panting and oh-so-elated. He rolled over onto his back and blew out a sigh, draping his arm over his forehead.  
  
Nicky lay next to him, equally as spent. He stared up at the ceiling, a goofy grin on his face. “Wow,” he sighed.  
  
Joe turned his head to the man. “Good?”  
  
Nicky chuckled. “Not to sound funny, but—” he laughed again, “that was an out-of-this-world fuck.”  
  
Joe snorted a laugh. He rolled onto his side again and kissed Nicky’s earlobe. “You have no idea.”  
  
Nicky let out a satisfied sigh and put his arm around Joe, holding him close. They stayed like that in silence for a bit, each coming down off of their high from (what was it? an hour? two hours?) of great sex. Joe reached out and entwined his fingers in Nicky’s left hand. The gold wedding band on his finger shimmered.

Nicky stopped, his face falling as he studied Joe’s arm. “ _Amore_ , what happened?”

Joe looked at his arm. There was still a small gash from where he had cut himself the other day to prove his mortality. It had since scabbed over into a long, thin red line. Joe had forgotten all about it. He reddened in embarrassment.

“Oh. I—I cut myself yesterday making lunch. It’s nothing.”

“Are you sure?” Nicky raised his head from the pillow and traced his fingers lightly over the wound. “Does it hurt?”

Joe smiled weakly. A twinge of pain plucked at his heart. In his other life, there were no lingering wounds like this to fret over. There was always that knee-jerk fear of a fresh injury, that it may be the one to re-trigger their mortality, but it always subsided. Here, though, things were permanent. A wound like this one might heal, but a scar would no doubt form. A reminder of life’s fragility.

“It doesn’t hurt,” Joe assured him.

Nicky watched Joe’s face for a moment, then kissed the wound. A grin played on his lips and he peeled the covers away from himself, swinging his legs over the bed and standing.

“Where are you going?” Joe asked.

“I need a shower.” Nicky stretched his arms over his head, his naked body flexing. He impishly looked over his shoulder at Joe and said, “Are you coming?”

Joe laughed. He followed his husband to the bathroom, his body stick with sweat and cum and saliva. He idly stroked his cock along the way, staring at Nicky’s ass, and hardened instantly.

Nicky turned the shower on and kept his hand under the head to feel the temp. As steam began to swirl around the small, plain white room, Nicky turned to Joe. He was half erect with lust clouding his azure eyes.

Joe followed his beloved into the warm shower. They stood under the water for a moment to get some heat, until Joe took Nicky’s face and kissed him deeply. He ran his hands through the wet tangles of his husband’s hair, breathing in his rich scent as he kissed and licked his way down the man’s neck. Nicky wrapped his arms around Joe’s neck, bringing him closer, and unconsciously bucked his hips towards him. Their cocks touched and Joe felt a shiver of pleasure. His throbbing member longed for friction.

Joe kissed his way down Nicky’s neck, then to his chest. He flicked his tongue over Nicolo’s nipple and the man groaned. Joe kissed and licked downwards until he was on his knees. He took the length of Nicky’s cock in his mouth and sucked greedily. Joe’s mouth and tongue sent such intense waves of bliss through Nicky, all he could do was lean his head back against cold shower tiles and breathe.

“Ungh,” Nicky moaned. He ran his fingers through Joe’s wet curls, urging him to keep going. He closed his eyes, head tilted to the ceiling, his mouth gaping as he struggled for air. Then, fearing he would climax sooner than he would have liked, Nicky put his hand on Joe’s shoulder and gently pulled him away.

Joe took the cue and kissed his way back up Nicky’s torso, the taste of the man’s salty precum still on his tongue. When he found his husband’s lips again, Joe took Nicky’s wrists and pinned them on the tile above his head.

Keeping one hand steady on Nicolo’s pinned wrists, Joe sucked and nipped at the soft, vulnerable skin of his lover’s neck.

“Fuck.” Nicky feebly tugged his wrists.

Joe smiled against Nicolo’s skin, satisfied that he had his lover under such control. “Feel good, baby?” Joe murmured.

Nicky smiled and nodded eagerly. “ _Sì, molto_.”

“Want me to fuck you again?”

“ _Sì, molto_ ,” Nicky repeated brethlessly.

Joe looked at him and whispered, “ _Di ‘per favore_.’” _Say ‘please.’_

Nicky laughed. “Please, _amore_. Please.”

With that, Joe released Nicolo’s wrists, playfully slapped his bum, and turned him around. He pressed his lover’s chest against the wall under the shower head.

Joe carefully approached Nicky from behind, his stiff member bobbing close to the split between his husband’s thighs. He leaned over and gently kissed the middle of his back. Nicky closed his eyes and sighed as Joe slowly, methodically, pressed his lips up each notch of his spine. When he reached the back of Nicky’s neck, Joe slid his arm around Nicolo’s chest and put his hand over the man’s heart. It was beating like crazy.

Everything felt right. It felt the way it always had in his reality. This Nicky wasn’t _his_ Nicky, but he made love the same way and his kiss was just as thrilling. To Joe, that was enough. At least for now.

Joe rested his chin on Nicky’s shoulder and whispered in his ear, “I love you, _hubibi_.”

Nicky parted his legs slightly to accommodate his husband. Joe dipped his hand between his husband’s thighs and worked his hole with his fingers. Nicky moaned and put his hands on the wall, shivering with pleasure. Joe realized he was directly under the hot water, then guided Nicky back by his hips to allow him to stand beneath the water. He positioned the head of his cock against his husband’s opening and slowly entered him.

Nicolo slapped a hand over his own mouth as he moaned. Joe had completely forgotten that they weren’t alone in the apartment. He turned Nicky’s face towards him and kissed him deeply, swallowing his groans of pleasure. He continued to kiss Nicky as he thrust, slowly at first, then faster when his husband adjusted to him.

Joe reached around and took Nicky’s cock in his hand. Feeling his lover’s erection nearly made him come on the spot. Joe moaned and thrust deeper, flesh slapping against flesh.

“Oh, God . . .” Nicky breathed.

Joe kissed the nape of Nicky’s neck as he pumped and grinded, trembling from his own intensity. He stroked his husband’s cock in rhythm to his pumping hips. Nicky moaned and threw his head back against Joe’s chest as Joe’s hardness struck a soft spot within him.

“Oh, God, Joe,” Nicky groaned. He could feel the climax building in his member already.

“Stay with me.” Joe put his hands on Nicky’s hips, pumping faster.

Nicky put his hand over his mouth again to stifle a cry. Joe thrust deeper, causing his lover to tighten his hold on his erection. He was close, so close . . .

“Joe—”

“Stay with me,” Joe breathed again. He thrust hard and fast, his breath labored.

“I’m coming,” Nicky panted.

Joe slowed his strokes, then gently squeezed the head of Nicky’s cock. Nicky bit down into his own hand as hot, white cum spurted from his member.

Joe closed his eyes as semen drenched his fist. He pumped his hips vigorously against Nicky’s, feeling himself falling, falling, his soul a million miles away from his body. When the pleasure was too intense, too much, he gave a few more quick thrusts, cried out, and came inside of his husband. Joe’s body shuddered and trembled as the last few spurts of his climax left him. He breathed again and slowly felt himself coming back down to earth with a ringing sound in his ears

The men stayed motionless for a moment, each still coming down off of their high. Joe released himself from Nicky, a line of cum dribbling out of his hole. He kissed Nicky’s neck. Nicky turned slowly on wobbling legs and faced Joe. His breath was shallow as he wrapped his arms around Joe’s neck, holding onto him for support in case his legs gave out.

Joe laughed softly. “Another out-of-this-world fuck, I hope.”

Nicky chuckled and nodded. “ _Sì, molto_.”

Again Joe laughed. He rubbed his nose against Nicky’s and sighed contentedly.  
  
0000000  
  
Sometime in the middle of the night, after cleaning themselves up from the shower and saying goodnight, Joe bolted up from bed with a splitting headache. White pain seared through his skull like galloping horses with flaming hooves. His head throbbed, aching to ooze from his eye sockets.  
  
Nicky roused, but only slightly.  
  
Joe swung his legs out of bed, clutching the sides of his head. Blood pounded in his ears, deafening the white noise around him.  
  
_“Yusuf! Destati!”_  
  
And a voice answered, _“He’s not waking up.”_  
  
Joe somehow managed to slip on a pair of boxers and make it to the bathroom.  
  
_“I’m almost done.”_ A man’s voice. Italian. Or maybe Spanish. _“He’s stable.”_  
  
A dirty concrete ceiling. Andy with blood on her face.  
  
Joe turned the light of the bathroom on, the yellow glow piercing his eyes and sending pinpricks through the back of his head. He made it to the sink, nearly falling before he could hold on to the edge. He was spinning, plummeting downwards, vertigo pushing his soul to the earth as his body staid rooted.  
  
Joe opened his eyes. His reflection was ghostly-pale, eyes dark and numb. He grunted, his body giving a twitch as blood began pouring from his nose. He held a shaking hand to his face, his head ringing with a high-pitched noise, like a kettle whistling a swan song. He wiped the blood away, the space between his eyes throbbing like a separate heartbeat.  
  
Joe turned the tap on and splashed cold water on his face. He wiped away the blood—God, it was so _thick_ this time—and dried his face. Joe looked in his reflection again. A tiny droplet of red escaped and he smeared the rest of it away. He washed his face and dried off, his hands trembling uncontrollably.  
  
Joe slowly lowered himself to the tiled floor, the dizziness subsiding. He sat against the door of the bathroom and touched his head, the bump on his skull pounding with every beat of his heart.  
  
He breathed in.  
  
Breathed out.  
  
Gradually, the blurry veneer sharpened and he could see again.  
  
He was here. He was still here.  
  
_“Oh,”_ Dorothy echoed in his brain, _“it’s going to be so hard to say goodbye!”_


	7. Chapter 7

Joe opened his eyes slowly. Light filtered into his bedroom from the shaded windows, warm and soft. It was morning. He rolled over onto his back and looked up at the ceiling. No headache. No visions or throbbing pains or bloody noses.  
  
Maybe he had dreamt it all.  
  
Joe reached next to him for Nicky, but grasped air. He turned over and saw a note on the pillow. _Meeting with the dean_ , he read. _Back soon. X_. Joe set the note back on the pillow and lay down, crossing his arms under his head. He smiled.  
  
Last night certainly hadn’t been the first time they had had sex, but there was a special quality about it that made it. . . memorable. Finally, Joe could kiss and touch and lay with the man he loved without feeling rushed, without worrying about being called into combat or ducking a nearby enemy. Even a year off from battle didn’t stop Joe from looking over his shoulder.  
  
But last night was perfectly serene. Almost life-affirming. Maybe even a little . . . _divine_.  
  
“Baba?”  
  
Joe sat up and looked at the doorway. He saw Amira in the frame, her pajama-clad body small and fragile. She clutched her teddy bear, Mr. Franklin, her curly brown hair a pillow-combed mess.  
  
“Hey, sweetie. What’s wrong?”  
  
“Where’s Papa?” the child asked, rubbing her eye and making her way to Joe’s side of the bed.  
  
“He had to go to work. He’ll be back soon.” Joe lifted her into the bed with him. “What’s wrong?”  
  
“I had a bad dream,” Amira said. She snuggled up against his side, Mr. Franklin wedged between them.  
  
“What was your dream about?”  
  
“I don’t a’member . . . I think there was a monster.”  
  
“A monster?” Joe stroked her hair and lightly kissed the top of her head. “What kind of monster?”  
  
“I dunno. He had feathers and he kept getting bigger and bigger . . .”  
  
“Oh, don’t worry, honey,” Joe said. “Baba knows how to fight. If that monster ever comes back, you just call me and I’ll beat him up.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
Joe kissed her head again. Her warm, powder-sweet smell turned his insides into mush. He was prepared to walk into a reign of gunfire for her, to face any and all monsters that pervaded her dreams, imaginary or otherwise. The love he felt almost made him go teary-eyed.  
  
They stayed in bed together a while longer. Just when Joe thought the child had nodded off, she would ask him a question or make an observation about the rumbling noise his tummy made.  
  
“I can hear your heart,” Amira said.  
  
“You can?” Joe grinned. “What’s it saying?”  
  
“It’s saying . . .” Amira pressed her ear closer to his chest. She said in a whisper, “‘There’s no place like home.’”  
  
Joe chuckled. “You think my heart’s saying that?”  
  
Amira raised her head from his chest and nodded, smiling.  
  
“Well, I think _you_ are a silly little monkey!” Joe pushed her onto her back and tickled her ribs, her neck, under her arms.  
  
Amira howled with laughter, squirming under him. “Okay, okay!”  
  
Joe hovered over her. “Do you know what we should do today?”  
  
Amira shook her head.  
  
“We should go to the park.”  
  
A smile erupted on Amira’s face. It was pure, unadulterated happiness.  
  
0000000  
  
Sometime after lunch, Joe walked with Amira to the park a few blocks south of their home. She skipped ahead of him, stopping every once in a while to swing on his hand or pick a leaf up from the sidewalk. Joe watched her, convinced she couldn’t have been more angelic if she tried.  
  
When they got to the park, the first thing Amira did was have her father push her on the swing. He tried teaching her how to pump on her own, but it made her swing move crookedly and he had to stop her. She was back on her feet in no time, running to the monkey bars and asking Joe for help. He held her up as she swung her way across the metal bars.  
  
“Baba, can we get a puppy?”  
  
Joe looked down at his daughter as they walked across the field toward the baseball diamond. She held his hand, absently kicking dirt up with her sparkly red Dorothy shoes.  
  
“A puppy?”  
  
“Yeah, like Toto!”  
  
“A dog is a lot of responsibility, Amira.”  
  
“I know, but it’s _so cute_ , Baba!” she flailed her hand out to emphasize “so” and “cute”.  
  
“Yeah, but we already have a cute little puppy right here!” Joe lifted his daughter up and threw her over his shoulder.  
  
“Baba!” Amira giggled.  
  
Joe spun around with her on his shoulder, laughing with her until the world became a dizzy haze. He set her back on her feet and she swayed. Amira suddenly pointed to a patch of white dandelions.  
  
“Look, a floaty-flower!”  
  
She ran to the patch and plucked a feathery weed from the ground. Amira puffed out a breath and blew the seeds to the wind, leaving half the stalk bare.  
  
“Wait, wait,” Joe knelt by her side on one knee and picked a dandelion from the ground. “Dandelions bring good thoughts to people.”  
  
“They do?”  
  
Joe nodded and held the weed to up to his face. “The seeds here carry wishes to people on the wind.”  
  
“How?”  
  
Joe held the dandelion up to Amira. “Make a wish for someone, then blow the seeds away, and the wind will bring the message to them.”  
  
“I’m gonna make a wish for you,” Amira said.  
  
Joe smiled. “Alright.”  
  
Amira closed her eyes and, after a beat, blew on the dandelion. The seeds flew to the wind, dancing in the air like delicate ballerinas. Joe watched them float softly, like small tufts of clouds, or the very dreams Amira had in her heart, and all at once his vision blurred, his heart raced, and the galloping horses burst from their stable and made their way to his brain.  
 _  
“It’s almost out.”_  
  
A pair of brown hands. A dirty concrete ceiling.  
  
 _“Hurry up!”_  
  
“Baba?”  
  
Andy’s bloody face. Nicky next to her, hand to his mouth, crying . . .  
  
Joe blinked and touched his forehead. The pounding in his ears matched the pounding of his heart. He looked at his daughter. _His_ daughter. Amira was staring at him curiously, the dandelion naked in her hand.  
  
“Does your owie hurt, Baba?”  
  
Joe swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded. “A little bit, baby.” He stood slowly, dizziness swimming in his head. He managed to get to his feet without falling over and took Amira’s hand. “Come on, let’s go home.”  
  
0000000  
  
Joe’s headache remained but the vertigo was gone by the time they had gotten back to the house. When they opened the front door, relief washed over Joe as Nicky stood in the dining room, unloading groceries.  
  
“Papa!” Amira ran to Nicky and jumped into his arms.  
  
Nicky lifted her up with a laugh and kissed her three times on the cheek. “ _Buongiorno, amore_. Where have you been?”  
  
“Baba took me to the park.”  
  
Joe closed the front door and leaned against it. A ripple of lightheadedness coursed through his body. He blinked hard and stood straight.  
  
 _Oh, God_ , he thought. _Please, not again._  
  
“Joe? You okay?”  
  
Joe looked at his husband. He nodded and made his way to the dining room. “Yeah, it’s . . . it’s kinda hot out there. I think I need some water.”  
  
Amira hopped down from Nicky’s arms. “I’ll get you some medicine, Baba.” She ran down the hall to her room, ever the efficient little doctor.  
  
“You look a little pale,” Nicky said.  
  
“M’fine,” Joe muttered, heading to the fridge. He grabbed a bottle of water and closed the door. When Joe turned, he dropped it on the floor.  
  
“Joe? What’s wrong?”  
  
Joe clutched the side of his head, a searing-hot lash of pain striking just behind his eyes. He saw Nile in a doorway of a cold, vacant room, shouting something at someone in a muffled voice as though a pillow were over her mouth.  
  
Joe blinked and came back to reality—or was it a hallucination?—and Nicky, his husband, held a hand up. “Joe, what’s wrong?”  
  
Joe rubbed the heel of his hand against his forehead, willing his headache to go away. He wished Nile would stop shouting.  
  
“I’m fine, I—”  
  
 _“It’s out.”_

 _A sound of metal clanking against ceramic._ _  
_  
Joe shook his head. “No.”  
  
Nicky approached him, touching his shoulder. “Hey. What is it?”  
  
 _“Joe? Can you hear me?”_  
  
Andy hovering above him. Her face wiped clean of blood.   
  
“Joe, look at me,” Nicky touched his husband’s chin, willing him to turn his head.  
  
Joe gently pushed Nicky away. “It’s nothing, don’t worry—” Joe took a step and stumbled, vertigo seizing him brain. He was falling, tumbling, hurtling nowhere. He grabbed the edge of the island counter and squeezed his eyes shut.  
  
“Joe!” The panic in Nicky’s voice was deafening. “What’s going on? Talk to me!”  
  
“ _Joe, destati_!” Nicky’s voice. But another Nicky. The real one.

  
Joe snapped his eyes open and his husband. This Nicky was real, too. Real flesh and hands and blue eyes and kind heart. “I don’t. . . I don’t want to go. . .”  
  
His vision narrowed, the edges glossy and yellow. The pain in his head was excruciating, his blood pumping cold water.  
  
“I’m calling an ambulance,” Nicky said, reaching for the phone on the wall.  
  
 _“Destati, amore. Come back to me.”_  
  
“Please! I don’t want to leave . . . don’t make . . .”  
  
“I need an ambulance at 199 West 10th Street, apartment twelve,” Nicky said into the phone.  
  
Joe gripped the island counter tighter, the horses running laps around the inside of his skull. He gritted his teeth, tears forming at the edges of his eyes, and he couldn’t remember a time when he was in so much pain, so much misery—  
  
“Baba?”  
  
The room seemed to go still. Even Nicky, who was frantically talking on the phone, stopped to look at his daughter as she stood at the edge of the hallway. She was looking at Joe with tears brimming in her wide, frightened eyes.  
  
“Baby, go back to your room,” Nicky instructed as he hung up the phone.  
  
“Baba—?”  
  
“I can’t . . . please, I wanna stay!” Joe was crying now, begging. He lurched forward and stumbled, his slip causing something within him to react. He felt the familiar flow of blood escaping his nose again.  
  
“Joe!” Nicky went to him and touched his face, examining the bleed.  
  
“ _He’s not waking up_.” Nile’s voice.

“ _He is, I saw his eyes open_.” Andy’s.  
  
Joe wiped the blood away with the back of his hand. “Why is this happening?” he cried.  
  
Echo, his voice was echoing. The blurry tunnel vision in Joe’s sight narrowed, and he felt himself falling, falling to the floor, the blood thick and unyielding, Amira’s cries miles and light-years away—  
  
Joe was looking up, lying on his back somehow, the blood dripping into his skull and all he could feel was Nicky’s touch, all he could hear was Amira’s voice.  
 _  
“Love you, Baba. Don’t forget about me.”_  
  
Amira in her red Dorothy shoes. Amira hugging him, loving him, a part of his soul.  
  
The image clouded over, not by darkness, but by a million tiny dandelions seeds floating before him, dancing towards the ceiling. They raised him up, and he drifted away.

Joe opened his eyes.  
  
Slowly.  
  
Achingly.

A dark, cold concrete room. No windows. A single, naked bulb on the ceiling. Joe blinked and a man came into view, a stranger with a wide face, brown skin, and deep wrinkles around his brown eyes. Then Andy came into view, her eyes wide and worried. Then Nile with her arms crossed. Finally, Nicky. Crying. Rushing to his side. His gray shirt was riddled with bullet holes surrounded by halos of dried blood.

The kitchen was gone. New York was gone. Amira . . .

Amira was gone.

Joe opened his mouth and yelled.

And yelled.

And yelled.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so so so so SO sorry for taking so long to update. It's been hell. But I wanted to finish up this fic to move on to other ones without leaving you guys in the lurch. I love you all and I thank you so much for your patience and devotion.

“Andy, help me!” Nile yelled.

Joe was thrashing on the flimsy cot he had been laying on. Nile ran to the side of the bed and held Joe down by his arms, shushing him and telling him it was okay.

The unfamiliar man who had been hovering over Joe was now one foot out the door, his face panic-stricken as he mumbled incoherently in Spanish.

Andy went to the man and said, “ _Tranquilo. Está bien_.”

“Andy!” Nile yelled

“ _Es un milagro_!” The man cried. He hastily made the sign of the cross. “ _Madre de Dios_ . . .”

“Nobody touch him!” Nicky cried. “Stop it!” Then he was by Joe, shoving Nile aside. He put his hands on Joe’s face and forced him to meet his eyes. “Joe! Look at me, baby.”

Joe stopped yelling, gulping for breath as tears ran down his face. Nicky. _His_ Nicky. Scared and anxious, but _his_. Wherever Joe was, _whenever_ he was, he knew he could trust him. “Please . . . please,” Joe begged. _Please give me an answer_ , he wanted to say. _Please make this make sense_.

“You’re okay,” Nicky said in Italian. “You’re safe.”

“ _Dove sono_?” Joe asked. _Where am I?_

“At the safe house in Juarez,” Nicky explained. “You were shot in the melee. We carried you—”

“You didn’t wake up,” Nile said. “We thought . . . except you kept opening your eyes.”

Joe looked at her. The memory had her spooked. He looked at the man in the doorway, who was side-eyeing him nervously and blathering with Andy in Spanish. Andy took a large wad of pesos from her jacket pocket and pressed it into the man’s palm.

“ _Gracias por tu ayuda_.”

The man nodded and, with one last look at Joe, hastily left the room.

“I-I don’t understand,” Joe said to Nicky. “Where’s Amira?”

Nicky glanced over at Andy and Nile. They looked at Joe, confused.

Andy knelt down to Joe’s side and said gently, “I need you to listen, Joe, okay?” She put her hand on his arm. “The bullet that hit you was stuck in your brain. It kept . . . I guess, your brain kept regenerating around it or something. We got a doctor . . .” Andy sighed and glanced at Nicky. “You came in and out all night. He finally pulled the bullet out and—”

“Where’s Amira?” Joe asked again.

“There’s no one here named Amira,” Andy said.

Joe shook his head, tears pooling in his eyes. “No. I-I was there—I need to go back. I need to tell her . . .”

“Shh, it’s okay.” Nicky softly ushered Andy aside and sat on the bedside again. He wrapped his arms around Joe and held him tightly. Tears wetted Nicky’s blood-stained shirt.

Joe sobbed quietly, grasping Nicky as though the man would disappear through his fingers like smoke. Nicky rocked him gently. Joe cracked his eyes open and, through a blur of tears, saw a blood-soaked bullet lying on the end table by his bed with a surgical tweezer nearby. Joe reached a hand around and touched the spot on his head where his headache lingered. The wound had completely healed.

_Two weeks later_

They got out of Juarez as quickly as Copley could manage. There was a train to Mexico City, then a flight to the safe house in Morocco. The gang was tired and spoke little.

Joe didn’t speak at all.

At the safe house, they agreed to take some time off. Andy got groceries. Nile made the beds and cooked some American comfort foods that only Andy seemed interested in. Nicky watched Joe like a hawk, barely leaving his side, save to shower and sleep.

Joe still didn’t speak.

After two weeks, Joe hadn’t made so much as a grunt in response to anyone. He slept most of the day, ate little, and stared out ahead as though he was watching someone else’s life play out before him. He made no mention of Amira. Nicky tried to suss out why Joe was still so haunted from his injury, but it was easier talking to a wall.

Instead of pushing for an answer, Nicky did what he did best: he cared for Joe. Nicky fixed him plates of food and coaxed him into eating as much as possible. He read Joe the newspaper in the morning and kept him abreast of the latest soccer scores. One night, Nicky drew a bath for Joe—adorned with fine rose salts, oils, and lavender—and helped wash him, slowly and methodically.

Nicky knelt by the claw foot bathtub, cleansing Joe’s arm with a sudsy rag. He smiled and said, “You know what this reminds me of?”

Joe made no reply.

“That bathhouse in Iraq,” Nicky continued. “I think it was before the Ottoman siege.”

Joe leaned his head back.

“Anyway, these oils always make me think of those bathhouses. You in that blue tunic. Always blue.” Nicky chuckled. “You said you liked the color because of my eyes.” Nicky’s cleansing rag trailed down Joe’s arm.

Joe took Nicky’s hand and squeezed it, his eyes unwavering from their spot on the wall ahead.

“My love, talk to me,” Nicky pleaded. “I want to help you. Tell me what to do.”

Joe could hear him, but his mind was miles away.

Red sparkly shoes.

The fish smell of an aquarium.

_“Love you, Baba. Don’t forget about me.”_

Joe’s throat tightened and he swallowed hard. He blinked away tears and finally, for the first time in two weeks, looked at Nicky.

“I want to tell you,” Joe whispered. “But you won’t believe me.”

Nicky grinned softly. “Love, we’re over a thousand years old. We’ve died half a million times. Whatever you need to say, I’m in no position not to believe you.”

Joe nodded, his brows knit in worry. He got out of the tub and dried himself off. Once he was dressed for bed, he sat with Nicky in their room and explained everything as a full moon watched over them. Joe spared no detail—the curl of Amira’s hair, the smell of their New York loft, the way he and the other Nicky made love, which was familiar but still somehow different. Nicky listened patiently, nodding in all the right places and laughing when Joe told him how Amira fell off the bed because she was so excited to go to the aquarium.

When Joe was finished, it was like a cinderblock had been lifted from his chest. Thankfully, Nicky didn’t seem worried or disbelieving or ready to wave it off as a simple dream.

“She sounds wonderful,” Nicky said about Amira.

They were in bed now, holding each other under the blanket as sounds from the street below filled the room from the open window.

Joe laid his head on Nicky’s chest and said, “You believe me, _hayati_?”

“I do,” Nicky raked his fingers through his beloved’s curls. “It sounds like a lovely place.”

“But it _can’t_ be real,” Joe murmured. “It’s not possible, right?”

Nicky was silent for a moment, then said, “There are many people—scientists and poets and playwrights—who believe in parallel universes. An infinite number of realities from our own. Who’s to say another version of ourselves aren’t out there right now, living another life?” Nicky turned his head down to meet Joe’s eyes. “If you say it’s real, it’s real.”

Joe was touched by Nicky’s answer, but a wave of pain crashed over him regardless. “I miss her, Nicolo,” Joe admitted. “I fell in love with her and now she’s gone.”

Nicky held Joe tighter and kissed the top of his head. “She’s not gone, _amore_. She’s living her life. It’s just a different one than ours. And she has her _baba_ with her now . . . the way I have you here with me now.”

Joe sighed deeply from the depths of his heart and said, “I hope so. I really, really hope so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is an epilogue, so please stay with me for the conclusion.


	9. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is, like, an insanely cheesy epilogue but we need some cheese in these shitty times. Thank you again for staying with me and reading this. Your patronage means the world to me.

EPILOGUE

The steady beep of a heart monitor woke Joe. His eyes fluttered open and he saw a speckled drop ceiling above him. His mouth was dry, a nasal cannula tickling the inside of his nose. The bed he was one was stiff and uncomfortable. His head pounded.

Joe’s vision lolled away from the ceiling to the blurry room before him. Fluorescent lights. Stale bleach smell. Stark white walls. Joe blinked and his vision focused. He was in a hospital room. He glanced next to him where the heart monitor was beeping and Nicky was asleep in a chair beside him. Joe reached out for him then stopped—his head was full of thunderclaps and the pulsometer clipped to his finger tethered him just an inch from the bedside.

He struggled to remember how he got here.

There was shouting. The smell of sweat and gym mats. A foot flying at his head and then darkness.

Joe smacked his dry lips, desperate for water.

The sound woke Nicky, who bolted upright and desperately grasped Joe’s hand. “Hey,” he said. “You’re awake.”

“Hmmph,” was all Joe could say.

Nicky pressed the call button for the nurse. He leaned over and caressed Joe’s forehead. “You scared us back there, _amore_.”

Joe grimaced. His entire body hurt. “Why am I here?”

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

Joe struggled to think. His memory felt like Swiss cheese—speckled with inconsistent holes. “Something about Krav Maga class. Did someone wail me in the head?”

Nicky laughed softly, his eyes still tinged with worry. “Yes, a week ago. You don’t remember passing out in the kitchen?”

The nurse entered suddenly. “Oh, good, you’re awake.” She took Joe’s vitals, asked how he was doing, and said she’d bring in the doctor.

“What day is it?” Joe asked her.

“Sunday the 14th,” the woman replied.

“ _Sunday_?” Joe groaned and touched his head. “Christ, how long have I been out?”

“Do you remember anything about this week?” Nicky asked. “The aquarium? Our date?”

Joe scrunched his face. “No. Shit.”

“Some short-term memory loss is common,” the nurse assured them. “Let me get the doctor.” She left the room.

“I’m just glad you’re awake,” Nicky said. He kissed Joe three times on the cheek, then once on the lips for good measure.

Joe chuckled. “You and those three kisses.”

“Hey, Amira doesn’t mind.”

“Oh, where is she?” Joe asked. “Shit—she didn’t freak out, did she? Did I scar her for life?”

Nicky pressed his lips in a thin line and continued to stroke Joe’s forehead. “She was afraid. We both were. You were . . . different, somehow.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I can’t explain it. Before your fall in the kitchen, you seemed so confused about everything. Like we were strangers.”

Joe’s mind reeled. An entire week was missing from his brain, yet somehow he had been up and walking around and going to the aquarium. It was as though someone else had slipped into the driver’s seat of his mind and taken a joy ride.

“This is fucked,” Joe said. I-I’m sorry, I don’t know what to say.”

“It’s okay,” Nicky reassured him. “You’re here now.”

The doctor came in and explained in detail what Joe had been through, but Joe was only half listening. Something something x-rays. Something something concussion and swelling in the brain. Something something not permanent. But all Joe could think of was Amira.

A few hours later, Nicky came back to the room after being gone. He held Amira’s hand and beckoned the nervous child inside. Amira took one look at her baba and ran to him, jumping up on the bed and throwing her arms around his neck.

“Careful!” Nicky cried.

“Oof!” Joe laughed. “There’s my girl! I missed you, sweetie.”

“Baba!” Amira cried against her father’s neck. “You’re my baba! My baba!”

“You’re my Amira,” he murmured gently. Joe kissed her head.

Amira lifted her small head from his neck, her cheeks wet with tears. She smiled at him widely. “You’re my real baba.”

Joe laughed. He looked at Nicky, who only shrugged.

“Does your owie still hurt?” Amira asked.

“My head?” Joe asked. “No, not anymore.”

His eye caught Amira’s shoes, the red sparkly ones she was desperate to wear at any occasion. Her Dorothy shoes. Then he had a sudden vision of something vague, something that felt almost real but too crazy to be anything other than a delusion brought on by his concussion: a dank concrete room and a bullet being pulled from his head.

Nicky noticed Joe’s faraway gaze and waved to him. “Hey. You alright, baby?”

Joe blinked. The vision was gone. “Yeah,” he said. Joe shuddered at the eeriness of such a strange image. He chuckled and said, “I had the weirdest dream while I was sleeping . . .”


End file.
